A Larger Perspective
by Neocolai
Summary: A transporter mishap shrinks Malcolm down to a mere eight inches. Luckily there are no cats aboard the enterprise - it's bad enough trying to evade every floor vent, boot heel and drain pipe. And then there's the ladies who equate him with every wrong version of the word "cute." (Genfic)
1. Chapter 1

**This is an old story from my Enterprise phase that never quite made it to the site. High time it was published. **

**I don't know why I NEEDED to make a mini-person fic back then... It just sort of inspired itself and turned into a yapping, persistent muse that wouldn't let go of the keyboard. Also, I love to channel Malcolm's "Inner Reed" (that part of him that you know just loves blowing things up), and I feel like I took him far too seriously in my other fics. Have some humor, friendship, whump and angst.**

**To keep the realism in the story, I actually did some research on the scientific vs. fictional potential for miniature people. While it's physically impossible to point-blank shrink a person's mass to the same detail (size of organs, blood pressure, etc) and expect them to survive, there's no reason tiny people can't be... adapted for survival, shall we say. (Once again, trying to make this as realistic as possible while just enjoying the frustration that Malcolm and the crew have to suffer through a _slight_ inconvenience.)**

**Disclaimer: Neocolai does not own Star Trek: Enterprise or anything related to the series (except three action figures of Malcolm since I needed to repaint two of them to accompany his MACO and Desert uniform... Obsessed? Me? Nah!)**

**Timeline: Set after the Xindi Wars but before Season 4**

* * *

The minute Captain Archer steps back and looks disconcertingly around the transporter, Trip knows that something's gone wrong.

"Where's Malcolm?" Archer inquiries instantly. "I gave you both of our coordinates."

"I had him locked in," Trip says, frowning as he reviews the data. They've had a few transporter glitches before, but nothing serious has ever happened. At least, no one's actually disappeared before. Malcolm's probably still tapping his foot on the planet's surface. "Scanning for him now..."

"I saw the particle stream," Archer insists. "He was right behind me."

"I'm not reading any interference..." Stepping back from the data screen, Trip glances around as though expecting the lieutenant to materialize. "He should be here."

"He should," Archer repeats, folding his arms. "Where is my tactical officer, Trip?"

"He's not on the surface," Ensign Almak reports.

"Scanners indicate he should be right... there..." Trip trails off, peering at the transporter pad.

"Here." Stepping back onto the platform, Archer waves his arms out. "What am I supposed to be looking at, Trip?" Paling, he prays that - despite the plausibility - his concern is only an irrational fear. "Trip, you didn't dematerialize him?"

Grey washes over Trip's face. "I know I checked the circuits an hour ago," he says feebly, striding to the platform. Scanner in hand, he treads across the platform, stopping short and wheeling around before he reaches the wall. "There's no residue matter. Scanner's showing his biosign ..."

Archer steps aside, avoiding the engineer's frantic pace, and glances at a flash of movement at his feet. His sidestep suddenly morphs into an awkward sort of tripping, skidding flail. Shoving Trip out of the way, he lunges for the edge of the platform and throws out his hands as his boots meet empty air.

They hit the ground in an inarticulate tangle of limbs, tumbling pell-mell in the most ludicrous display of evasive maneuvers that will _not_ be recorded in the captain's log. Cringing as his boot smacks Trip's face, Archer rolls upright and scrambles to the transporter platform.

"Malcolm?"

Reeling backward from the force of his voice, the small figure claps his hands over his ears and shouts back. The faint baritone is indiscernible, but it's unmistakable. Measuring less than a foot high in a pint-sized jumpsuit, the Enterprise's tactical officer looks scandalized as he gestures to his diminutive form. Trapped between mirth, unbelief, and the sense of being caught in a bad dream, Archer huffs lightly and says, "I can't hear you."

Again Malcolm skitters back, covering his ears. More angry gestures follow. Waving his hands helplessly, Archer backs away.

"Get Phlox in here, stat!" he barks to Almak. He turns to address Trip, jabbing over his shoulder at the transporter station. "Start taking that thing apart. I want to know what went wrong and how to reverse this. Get to it."

Flummoxed, Trip tore his eyes away from the miniaturized lieutenant and scampered to follow his orders. "I don't know what could've..." he mumbled to himself as he pulled open the maintenance hatch. "Everything was running perfect last time I..."

Archer doesn't need to hear more. Crouching beside the transporter platform he lowers his voice and asks Malcolm, "Can you understand me?"

There's a short, irritable nod. Malcolm's arms are wrapped tightly around himself, as though the environmental controls have failed and the temperature's dropped ten degrees. He bounces on his heels a few times and mimes putting on a hat. Baffled, Archer runs a hand through his hair.

"A hat? You weren't wearing a hat on the transporter," he says. "I doubt we have one that fits."

Flinging out his arms in denial, Malcolm claps his elbows close again and rubs his arms briskly. Finally, the gesture makes sense.

"Are you cold?" Archer guesses. The temperature in the room hasn't changed. Perhaps the transporter affected more than Malcolm's height.

Another curt, unhappy nod follows his query. Relieved that there's been _some_ form of successful communication, Archer braces his hands on his knees and stands up.

"I'll have Phlox bring a blanket... or something," he awkwardly amends. "We could cut off a corner of a hanky or..."

Sniggering behind the transporter station tells him that at least _someone_ is amused by the predicament. Archer shoots a glare at Trip's crouched form. Even Malcolm's irritation is evident from the way his right foot stamps.

"We'll get you something," Archer promises him. "This is only temporary, okay? Phlox will have a look at you, and we'll get the transporter to reverse the... problem."

He doesn't know how else to describe it, and Trip's chortling is getting to be a bit much. Casting another glare at the engineer, Archer stoops down to keep a better eye on his... small lieutenant.

"He ain't much taller than a reed, is he?" Trip says amicably, wisely keeping his head down.

"Just do your job!" Archer snaps. He looks down at his shivering tactical officer and sighs. "Soon as the doctor get here, we'll figure everything out," he promises. "This isn't permanent."

It'd better not be.

* * *

"Frankly, I've never seen anything like it," Phlox says as he exchanges the medscanner for a magnifier and examines Malcolm's birdlike hands. "He's fully functional, albeit the transformation has given his system quite the shock. His body temperature is still fluctuating, but I suspect it will stabilize around ninety-eight degrees. Weight is... a little less than twenty grams, respiratory rate of one hundred and eleven per minute - of course, he is emotionally distressed at the moment - try to take even, calm breaths, Lieutenant - and pulse rate of four hundred and eighty beats."

"Per minute," Archer states, aghast. "Isn't that a little techy...tachy..."

"Tachycardic?" Phlox supplies. "Perhaps, but we're not necessarily looking at humanoid measurements, are we? I would compare his current physiology to a small rodent; in order to maintain his diminutive form, his body is compelled to function at a remarkable speed and take in large quantities of nutrients."

"Then what's going on with him?" Archer wonders, watching in concern as Malcolm lowers his head into his hands, shaking in the scrap of blue cloth that Phlox cut out for a pseudo blanket.

"Here, take this," Phlox says briskly, handing Archer a measuring syringe. "Measure .05 milliliter into that vial cap. I've sanitized it; it should be passable as a drinking utensil for the time being. Will you give that to the lieutenant and tell him to drink it immediately, please? His metabolic rate is much higher than a normal human's and he's about to go into hypoglycemic shock."

"What is it?" Archer asks, hesitating with his thumb on the plunger.

"Basically, it's hummingbird nectar," Phlox says, shrugging. "He'll need something more substantial, obviously, but given that several of his major organs have evolved to suit his new form, I'm not sure what he can handle yet. There could be any number of allergies that didn't make an appearance before. I don't want to risk anything that might impair his immune system."

"This can't be just a transporter malfunction," Archer insists as he scrapes a drop of the clear fluid into the tiny metal cap. "Starfleet informed us about previous disasters in the early models, but nothing was as complex as this. You're talking as if he's practically a new species!"

"Practically, yes," Phlox agrees. "Everything but his basic DNA has adjusted to his smaller mass. His hearing is sharper, his pupils are larger, his heart rate and oxygen levels have increased, his bones are nearly hollow, and his metabolism is equivalent to a Tarkanian field mouse. In short, he's the first successfully miniaturized human being that has ever survived the shrinking process."

"Survived?" Archer repeats in dismay.

"Captain," Phlox says candidly, "You're aware that your internal organs and bone density are genetically singular for your species. If one were to simply shrink down your body's mass index, why, your hearing and sight would be absolutely useless and you might freeze to death within minutes! You would practically be a blob of matter on the transporter pad."

Malcolm gags on the hummingbird solution, spluttering into his sleeve until the coughing fit is under control.

"Which is why Lieutenant Reed's ability to function is a scientific impossibly," Phlox emphasizes, squinting through the magnifier to be sure that the lieutenant had survived his choking episode. "I have no idea what to test for or how to treat him should something happen."

Casting a dire eye at Archer, he warns in a low voice, "Until we know more, Captain, might I suggest you keep him well out of trouble? I doubt I'll be able to help much if someone steps on him or flushes him down the waste extraction system."

Gagging on Phlox's solution, Malcolm gives Archer a look of utter distress. He can't blame the lieutenant; nothing is more humiliating than to the threat of drowning in the toilet.

"I'll make the crew aware of the situation..." Archer mumbles, and his tactical officer's mortification is complete.

"Just keep him up here for the time being," Phlox advises. "Within twenty-four hours, I should have a full analysis of his digestive system and blood components - provided I can draw any blood without draining him. By then, I'm sure Commander Tucker will have resolved the problems with the transporter. Pity... I would like to study the anomaly a bit longer."

"Keep in mind that this is Malcolm, not an extraterrestrial slug," Archer cautions, giving a minute shake of his head to reassure Malcolm that he is not going to be subjected to the doctor's obsession with learning every nuance of a new species. "Just find out what you need to keep him alive and in one piece. I don't want to keep him cooped up in sickbay any longer than necessary."

Pragmatically, Phlox considers, "I'm not sure where else to put him. His vocal chords won't carry to our ears, so we're limited on communication. We can't let him out in the hall; he can't even reach the door panel."

"We'll figure out _something_," Archer insists. "Maybe there's a spare habitat handy... we could put him in my quarters. If that's preferable," he amends, looking to Malcolm for confirmation. A fervent nod proves his assumption that _anything_ seems better to the lieutenant than sticking around for Phlox's nighttime routine.

"I'm sure I can find a terrarium to suit his needs," Phlox considered. "Yes, Lieutenant, I understand it's not a concept that you're comfortable with. This is merely a temporary solution. You can hardly navigate your quarters when the bunk is ten times your height, after all. It won't be a cage, I assure you. I'll tip the habitarium sideways and you can come and go as you please. There's even a light switch that you can toggle on your own."

Covering his eyes, Archer wills the Denobulan to stop prattling. He gives Malcolm his most sympathetic look and vows, "One night. If this lasts longer than twenty-four hours, I'll have Trip rig you a _real_ set of quarters."

Hardly reassured, Malcolm hunches sullenly into his patch of blanket. A communications device is going to be a necessity if this alteration lasts, Archer decides. There must be a way to amplify his voice. One communicator, one personal quarters, and one reversal on a malfunctioning transporter. Trip will just have to put his other projects aside.

"He'll still have to stay here for twenty-four hours," Phlox says. "I need a full assessment of his anatomy or there's no telling what might affect his system. For example, no injections for bromelain. Don't look at me that way, Lieutenant. I simply cannot take a chance without ascertaining the proper dosage, and I don't have any experience measuring units for humanoids smaller than a Pyrithian bat. It will take some time for me to estimate the proper treatments for your allergies."

"That's going to be a problem, isn't it?" Archer realizes. "He's allergic to ... what? Pollen? Something else?"

"Dust mites, oak pollen, tropical grasses, and plant enzymes," Phlox rattles off. "Most of which are contained thanks to the environmental control, but he'll have to stay away from the away teams if this condition lasts. Nothing is life threatening, I assure you, but better to avoid any further discomfort at this point. Also, might I suggest the lieutenant avoid certain tropical fruits until he can receive his proper injections," Phlox adds, pointedly addressing Malcolm. The responding glower is ... relatively mild, given that its bearer is scarcely as tall as a communicator.

"Any ideas on how to reverse this?" Archer asks, slowly pacing around the table. He knows that there is no simple "fixit" for something of this magnitude, but there's always a thread of optimism propelling him towards the impossible.

"I'm a doctor, not an engineer," Phlox denounces immediately. "The human body is nothing like a warp coil. Nothing happens overnight."

Which is _exactly_ what neither officer wants to hear at this point. Gruffly folding his arms, Archer leans against the table and gathers his frayed temper. He needs to respond in a rational matter, as if there is a routine protocol established in the happenstance of shrunken officers. The crew must be informed. Safety measures will have to be taken. They can't just stow Malcolm away in his quarters indefinitely. He's part of the crew still. There must be a way he can ... fit in.

"Keep me posted, Phlox," Archer orders. "Twenty-four hours, Malcolm. If Trip hasn't figured out the problem by then, we'll arrange suitable quarters for you - _temporarily_," he emphasizes. Because this won't be permanent. A few days; maybe a week at most. He won't lose his tactical officer to something as trivial as a contracted molecules.

"Archer to T'Pol," he curtly hails through the wall com. "Meet me in my ready room."

In this ludicrous and nonsensical crisis, he could use a bit of Vulcan logic.


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm has shouted himself hoarse and tried everything but tap-dancing morse code, but the conversations carry on above him as though he's nothing more than a cricket protesting against a team of curious science officers. The captain talks as though he hopes the crisis will simply blow over, and Phlox chatters with the enthusiasm of a zoologist discovering a new species, but nobody _listens_. Hasn't Malcolm signaled enough that he deserves a say in what's going to happen?

But as always, the captain makes up his mind, and the doctor has his way. Malcolm is left in sickbay, subject to Phlox's examinations, without even a chance to explain what he _saw_ before the transport happened. Something that Trip will never pick up on his scanners.

It's ironically typical. Ever since the Ilyrian vessel, Malcolm has fought a rising sense of militarism: follow orders, no questions asked. In the beginning days of the Enterprise, the captain surprised him with his open communication and willingness to bear the advice of any officer - even a Vulcan. It took time for Malcolm to trust that openness and dare raise his voice if something seemed amiss.

When Archer gave the order to steal the Ilyrian's warp coil - to leave them stranded, dead in the water - it became Malcolm's duty to cripple their ship. A blow so treacherous and beneath them that for a moment he couldn't distinguish the Enterprise from a guerrilla faction.

In the end, the Enterprise succeeded in her mission, and the crew returned to... relative normalcy... but the incident left a subtle shadow on Malcolm's trust. Barely tangible, it hovers still, tainting a moment and then brushing aside as though it was only a passing thought. An imprudent feeling of inadequacy.

Now, size-comparable to a blade of grass and unintelligible to any of the crew, Malcolm has never felt smaller. What being would take satisfaction in rendering such a curse? What gods of the universe would mock him among anyone else in the crew?

_And how do I make you understand that? _Malcolm silently beseeches the captain. _Someone has sabotaged your crew - that's what you need to resolve, not some petty inconvenience that's befallen me. Whoever did this is bound to target someone else. What if it's you they take out next, or T'Pol, or Hoshi? Stop worrying over the minor details and really look at what's happened!_

It's no transporter malfunction, this much Malcolm is certain of. The "shrinkage effect" certainly seems to apply to his scanner and his communicator, and both are now useless, intricate models of their life size counterparts. Had Malcolm followed suit, he probably would have been a shapeless blob of matter, just as Phlox described. No, the transformation itself was orchestrated flawlessly.

Colors have changed around him, dulling to wan shades of yellow, green and grey. He feels as though the crewmen are moving lazily around him, as if in a few lunges he could clear the examination table before Phlox could lash out to catch his fall. His appetite has changed as well. Mealtime always seemed to be a duty to perform (except at breakfast), but now he's ravenous, biting at his lip because that thick, gunky nutrient slop that Phlox measured out was hardly enough. Everything is too slow and too loud - booming voices, scraping tools, high pitched whistling from the lights and electronics - and each creature is accompanied by its own wavering aura and distinctive smells that are so strong he can almost _taste_ them. Denobulan sweat, Malcolm decides, is ultimately the most revolting memory he'll ever associate with sickbay.

"See, you're calmer already," Phlox says cheerfully, his voice clapping over Malcolm like a fourteen-foot wave crushing a tiny boat. "Just keep taking deep, even breaths. Ah! Captain Archer is here with the Subcommander. I'm sure they'll want to speak with you."

Speak _to_ him, yes. Reciprocating in kind is rather impossible at the moment. Having entertained his childish fit long enough, Malcolm rises to his feet and slings aside the blanket, straightening his uniform as he tries to salvage a shred of his former pride.

He's _quite_ prepared for T'Pol's reaction when she enters the room, but it still irks him when the predictable eyebrow is raised. _Yes, Starfleet now comes in miniature. Take a good, long look._

"The captain has informed me of your situation," T'Pol says coolly.

Malcolm considers that within a day he'll be craving her non-condescending tone, but for now he's only grateful that she was considerate enough to keep her voice down.

"Have you determined how he will survive on the ship?" T'Pol directs to Phlox.

"It's hard to say without any blood tests," Phlox says gravely. "He simply doesn't have enough flesh and muscle to accommodate a proper needle. Any skin tear or incision at this size will stretch into a vicious scar once he returns to normal. I'm programing the medscanner to isolate his glucose levels and allergens. Once it's completed, I'll have the accurate dosage requirements for his mass index. It should only take a couple of hours."

"And until then?" Archer interjects.

"_Twenty-four hours_, Captain," Phlox reminds him. "You can't rush a diagnostic scan. Why don't you two speak with Commander Tucker about habitat requirements? I assume you'll want him to be comfortable for the duration of this condition."

It's a polite emphasis of, _Shoo now, and let me do my work. _Casting T'Pol a bemused glance, Archer lingers to offer one more reassurance. "Hang in there, Malcolm. It's just for a few days."

_As compared to an overnight problem, _Malcolm scoffs. The timetable continues to stretch the longer they study the anomaly. He's anxious, but not surprised. _Until we go back and find out who was behind all of this, we may as well be charting a sunrise._

He watches T'Pol and Archer leave sickbay, free to carry out their duties to their utmost capacity, and he suddenly feels quite alone in his predicament. It's 0300 hours. In less than an hour he would be readying himself for the day, already contemplating the repairs needed to the weapons alignment, and the training required for some of the younger security officers. There were a few systems that needed adjustments and he had been working on a new away team protocol that guaranteed at least one medical officer in case of a sudden injury. (They had run into enough of _those_ on foreign planets.)

Now, he is the one being left behind, restricted to sickbay - not because of some injury or illness - but because he's practically a large insect scuttling around the ship. What use is a tactical officer who could be crushed by one of his own photon torpedoes?

_This can't go on forever, Captain,_ Malcolm admits dismally. _You'll have to find a way around the curse soon… or find someone to replace me._

* * *

At 0500 Hoshi glides into sickbay. Malcolm braces himself for the cooing adoration which females shower upon infants, small animals, and - dreadful as it is to accept - bantam Reeds. To her credit, Hoshi battens down a smile and doesn't utter a single endearment. Awkwardly she steps forward and fiddles with a handful of beige fabric.

"The captain… told me what happened," Hoshi says uncertainly. "I know this isn't supposed to last very long, but… I thought you might like something more comfortable to sleep on."

Sheepishly she lays out a rectangle of foam, with honest-to-goodness hemmed sheets and a small comforter. There's a small pillow that looks fairly plush and not at all bulky. Huffing lightly, Malcolm realizes she must have been up for a couple of hours. Every piece of fabric has been professionally hand-stitched.

"Sorry, I'm not trying to treat you like a doll or anything," Hoshi says, suddenly flustered. "I just thought… if you don't need them, that's fine. I just wanted to help. I mean…."

Rescuing the poor girl from her embarrassment, Malcolm grabs the vial cap and starts tapping it against the table. The faint, tinny rhythm grabs Hoshi's attention, just as he hoped.

_T….H….A….N….K.…Y...O...U….._

Flushing, Hoshi claps her hands in front of her face. "You really like them?"

Relieved, Malcolm nods enthusiastically. Finally, _someone_ can understand him.

"I can make you a couple of uniforms, if you like," Hoshi offers, her confidence in full bloom. "I mean, I don't know how long this will last, but if you need extra clothes I can sew them for you. I'd just need your measurements."

_That_ is something too far below his dignity to consider just yet. Intent on distracting her from the topic, Malcolm intently taps out a new request.

_S….P….E….A….K….C….A….P…._

* * *

Reliable as ever, Hoshi comprehends him before he can finish the second word. "Captain Archer? You want him here right now?"

Oh, it's wonderful to be understood. Malcolm leans back and nods, confident that with the linguist's assistance, Archer will have no trouble deciphering his report. Hoshi beams.

"Give me a few minutes," she requests. "I think he's in the transporter room."

She's gone with a flick of her ponytail, lighting on a challenge with the enthusiasm that has won the allegiance of many a foreign delegate. Malcolm settles in to wait, pulling the pleasantly warm and unadorned blanket around his shoulders, and makes a face when Phlox steals his vial cap.

"You wouldn't be cold if you weren't so low on nutrients," Phlox reminds him, measuring more purple glop into the makeshift cup. "Drink up, Lieutenant. Soon enough I'll have a solid formula prepared for your… erm… delicate system."

Since no one can hear him gripe, he gives a full, uncensored review of Phlox's bloody concoctions. "What's the problem with resequenced protein?" he challenges. "It's safe for the _rest_ of the crew. Am I supposed to be grateful for some tasteless form of _hardtack_ that you doctors consider nutritional support? You can't expect me to live off of that forever!"

"I knew you'd like the idea," Phlox says blithely, clearly misinterpreting Malcolm's blathering as some sort of eager anticipation. "I can even synthesize a chocolate or vanilla flavor, if you like."

Malcolm buries his face in his hands.

* * *

"Light… sentient being… transformation….transporter beam..." Hoshi carefully translates. "I think he's saying this happened while he was still on the planet."

"Before we transported?" Archer says, his brow furrowed in confusion. "He was full size when the beam caught us. Is he saying that _someone_ did this? Mid-transport?"

Hoshi tilts her head, concentrating on the faint clinks. "Surface… Something about a funny hat. It's definitely a person he's describing."

"There wasn't anyone in the area," Archer reasons.

"Our scanners did not indicate any life forms," T'Pol elaborates, "However, some sentient life forms have been known to evade technological detection."

"And this is one of them," Archer guesses. He sighs and paces around the biobed, scratching the back of his head. Nine hours of restlessly searching for answers is beginning to tell. "Go back to the planet. We'll send down a search team. Maybe we can find this being and convince him - her - _it_ \- to reverse the transformation."

"Malcolm seems to be objecting," T'Pol indicates, nodding her head towards the tactical officer, who was frantically shaking his head.

"Why? What seems to be the problem?" Archer lowers his voice, stooping to peer at his tiny officer.

Malcolm makes a deliberate cancellation gesture and taps out, _Danger…. Strike…. Again….._

"You think the same thing could happen to someone else," Archer dictates after listening for a moment. "Why would someone shrink an exploration team? What would be the point? We didn't even _see_ anyone down there."

T'Pol steps forward and interjects, ""There was, as you described, 'a flourishing paradise of birds and beasts, the like of which Earth has never seen.' Perhaps the caretaker of these animals considered you to be an intruder and a threat."

"So he put a curse on my armory officer," Archer snaps. "He didn't even bother asking why we were there?"

"Perhaps it is _wiser_ for the ship to remain in orbit above the planet," T'Pol cautions. "If there is a sentient life form below, and the technology to alter a human being, eventually we will make contact."

"How long is Malcolm expected to wait for that?" Archer challenged. "We could be looking at weeks. Phlox, you promised me twenty-four hours. I can't leave him in this state!"

There's a thin plonk as Malcolm slaps the cap against the table, demanding their focus. Deliberately he claps out his opinion, pausing to ensure that Hoshi comprehends each word. _Better….Wait… No...More….Losses_ ….

"Lieutenant Reed has made a valid point," T'Pol agrees. "Beaming onto a likely hostile planet will risk more officers, which we cannot afford to lose. Better to delay a few weeks than to jeopardize the crew."

"I won't leave him in this state for weeks," Archer argues, cutting off Malcolm's interceding wave. "Is this any state to live in? He can't even use a comlink to speak with us!"

"Malcolm's life is not in danger," T'Pol firmly reasons. "It is an inconvenience, nothing more. The circumstances will not improve if other crew members are subjected to the same transformation."

"It's easy for us to say that," Archer retorts. "Look around you, T'Pol. The beds, the counter surfaces, the door panel - he can't access _any_ of that! You and I leave this room, and we can return to our posts as though none of this happen. Where does that leave him? Confined to his quarters day after day, for _months?"_

"You're letting your personal feelings get in the - "

"T'Pol, I don't want to hear anything more about _my feelings,_" Archer says, briskly cutting her off. "This is about Malcolm. I won't leave my first officer cooped up in a cage just because he's the size of a hamster."

"_Habitat_, Captain," Phlox speaks up. "It's not the same. And he won't be restricted to his quarters. As long as he's careful, and the crewmembers are made aware of his presence, I think he could have fair run of the ship."

Aghast, Archer flings his hands out. "Is there no one backing me on this? Malcolm, don't say anything. You don't have to sacrifice yourself because it's _acceptable_ for the _mission_."

"This is _not_ about the mission," T'Pol says, raising her voice a notch in the Vulcan impression of agitation. "This is about the safety of the Enterprise. We _will_ find a solution, and we _will_ restore the lieutenant to his former state, but we must consider the wellbeing of _all_ of the crew."

"It's tricky enough creating a health and wellness plan for one metamorphosed crewmember, let alone ten or fifteen more," Phlox adds dryly, glancing up from his medscanner.

"As you have emphasized, the situation is only temporary," T'Pol concludes. "Even Lieutenant Reed has agreed that this is a better solution. If you are taking his well being and opinion into consideration, perhaps you should listen to him."

"Of course I'm listening," Archer says, leaning back with a sigh. "I just don't think it's fair to him."

"Your view of fairness is an assumption that everyone is equal," T'Pol says. "In this case, we are not. The lieutenant is physically incapable of fulfilling his duties. It is no different than if we were accommodating an injured crew member. His place on the Enterprise has not changed, but we must move forward without his assistance."

Muttering a curse, Archer slams his palm against the table. He cringes apologetically when Malcolm jumps. "There has to be … some way he can keep up. No one wants to feel useless day after day."

He's summed up Malcolm's fears exactly, but T'Pol quietly states the truth. "Captain, you're asking the impossible."

"Then _make _it possible," Archer snaps, striding for the door. "Get Trip on that voice magnifier. I want a full list of Malcolm's duties before we reach orbit."

The door swishes behind him, almost as much a dismissal as his curt command. Hoshi and T'Pol exchange a hapless look. The only action that will result from summarizing Malcolm's responsibilities will be the election of another armory officer until he can return to his post. The captain is grasping for wisps of control, but soon enough he will be forced to accept that he cannot sacrifice the routine of the entire ship for one man.

Crossing his legs, Malcolm rubs the scuffed toe of one boot, contemplating with dismay that even a tin of polish is beyond his capacity to open. T'Pol is right; he's of no use to the Enterprise or her crew. Better to stave it out than to force this condition on anyone else, but it's going to be a long few weeks… and that's if they even make contact with the being who cursed him. The thought of living this way for years brings a swell of panic upon him, and he tucks his head down until it passes. A nudge at his leg tells him that Phlox is pressing more of that ghastly purple goo upon him.

He can't live this way forever.


	3. Chapter 3

Trip wavers outside of sickbay, wondering if he should give it a few more hours before he breaks the news to Malcolm. He's been at it for nine hours, picking apart the transporter pad, the circuit box, the particle transmitters… The fact is, _nothing_ is wrong. There's no explanation for a compressed crewmember, and that means there's no easy way to reverse it.

He's already had an earful already. The captain greeted him with a curt, "Voice amplifier - that's your new priority," T'Pol wouldn't even _look_ at him as she crisply relayed, "Captain Archer wants you to devise a communications device for Lieutenant Reed," and Hoshi practically ran him down in the hall to tell him, "I'm supposed to work with you to arrange suitable quarters for Malcolm." If one more person nags him about Malcolm before he gets some decent shuteye, he's gonna walk out and call it a sick day.

Ironically, he's still hovering outside of sickbay, mentally preparing to speak to Malcolm himself. It's a pretty hard bombshell he'll be dropping on the lieutenant. "Reed jokes" aside, Trip would hate to be in his position. He hadn't even cleared the transporter pad and the captain nearly stepped on him, and now he's stuck on a ginormous ship with eighty-two crew members hopping about. It'll be small wonder if he's panicking a little more than the captain at this point.

Before Trip can bring himself to slap the chime, the door opens and Phlox steps back, mildly startled. "Ah. Commander Tucker. Please, come in. I expect you have some news for the lieutenant."

"Nothin' good," Trip says reluctantly. He slips past Phlox, batting his datapad against the opposite hand.

He pauses just across the threshold. Malcolm seems to be... _nesting_ is the only word Trip can come up with for it. The lieutenant paces about in a tipped-over terrarium, toggling the light switch, and nudging a mound that's definitely considered a bunk. He looks irritably at the glass wall panes surrounding him and kicks at a small jar in the corner. Okay, not nesting, then. Definitely displaying some abnormal levels of aggravation and distaste for his current surroundings. Probably not the best time to tell him that Trip has no clue what he's dealing with.

"Lieutenant Reed, you have a visitor," Phlox announces, ruining all hopes of a stealthy exit.

It's harder to read an eight-inch person, but Trip's pretty sure he's doing a fair imitation of Malcolm's irritable snarl. Maybe it echoes back, because Malcolm looks properly affronted as he marches out of the terrarium and plops down with his back to the glass. Well, that puts four people on the team for the "everyone blame Trip" marathon.

"Look, I'm sorry I don't have any good news," Trip says, flipping the datapad onto the table. "I've been through every system and I can't find a dang thing wrong with the transporter. There has to be something to do with the planet's atmosphere. You sure you didn't find any miniature elephants down there or something?"

Even as the words fly out of his mouth, Trip realizes how outrageous he sounds. Phlox pauses in the middle of his feeding routine and mutters something about humans and their caffeine consumption. Slumping against the table, Trip shakes his head.

"I dunno what to tell ya."

He risks a glance down at Malcolm, and realizes the tactical officer is sniggering.

"What's so funny?" Trip snaps. Fine, so he laughed at Malcolm earlier, but this is the worst time for payback.

Looping one arm over the other, Malcolm imitates an elephant's trunk and rolls back, clutching his stomach. The notion _is_ ridiculous, Trip realizes, and he can't help but chuckle himself. The stress catches up and before he knows it he's leaning against the table, laughing himself silly while Malcolm makes faint, piping elephant noises. Long minutes afterwards, Trip straightens and wipes his eyes, glad that he's not the only one who's a bit cracked in the head.

"Sorry I don't have better news," he says lamely.

Malcolm shrugs. He's accepted his lot, Trip deciphers. There's no sense moping about it.

"I can rig up something better than this," Trip says, rapping one knuckle against the glass box. "Ensign Davis used to work in a hobby shop. I'll betcha he can carve a few pieces of furniture."

Understanding eases the lines on Malcolm's face. Solemnly he unclips the items from his belt and slides them over. One hyperscanner, one communicator, and one phaser. They're intricately preserved, if unresponsive.

"I'd need some itty-bitty tools to get at these," Trip considers, picking up the communicator with two fingers and squinting at the dial. He sees Malcolm's face fall and adds hurriedly, "Davis probably has something. I'll see what I can do."

A short, brisk nod tells him that Malcolm appreciates the effort, no matter the outcome.

"Cap wants me to get you a voice amplifier, too," Trip says. "Guess that means I'll have to hear you yammering again."

The answering glare is three-parts mockery instead of ninety percent self-pity, so Trip calls it a win. "At least throw a blanket over that, Doc," he calls to Phlox, waving one hand at the terrarium. "A guy's gotta be able to take a whiz in peace."

"There's a wool blanket to your right, Commander Tucker," Phlox says without looking up from prodding at a Romulan bloodworm. "The one with the large square cut out of the corner."

Rolling his eyes, Trip unfolds the dark fabric and slings it over the casing so that the walls are covered and there's enough space for a "doorway" where the lid and the sides part. "That light's kinda bright," he comments. It's harsh enough on his eyes, and Malcolm has to stand right beside it to turn it on and off. "Don'tcha have anything softer?"

"When you devise a new habitat, you can modify whatever light fixtures you desire," Phlox says airily. "Now, if there isn't anything else, I have a new formula that Lieutenant Reed needs to test."

He doesn't blame the poor guy for fleeing into his blanket fort and pulling the door shut behind him.

* * *

Ensign Davis eagerly takes up the task of creating a miniature apartment complex for Lieutenant Reed. By now most of the small crew is aware of Malcolm's misfortune, and Davis has no shortage of helpers. While Commander Tucker devotes himself to the threaded wires of the communicator, Davis uppends a cargo bin and begins carving out doors and window boxes. Passing through the engineering deck, Ensign Rossi catches on and offers to knit curtains - "Or at least a rug", she amends after Davis and Trip's awkward hesitation. Ensign Almak strings wires for electrical heating, seeing as Malcolm "Seems apt to to grow chilly." (The tactical officer's 'burrowing' in his cave might have attributed to this general knowledge passing through the grapevine.) Two light panels are installed by Ensign Billy, who does nothing to hide his amusement regarding Davis's "dollhouse." Together, Crewmen Rhodes and Alex design a crude pipe system with an attached basin that can be refilled to cycle through a shower and toilet and flush into a smaller, removable basin hanging just under the floor.

Making use of the cargo bin lid, Davis welds supports to the back and strings wires for a rope ladder, creating an effective balcony. Crewman Dillard amuses himself by soldering a ring of pocked metal and wires around the circumference, which Davis admits makes an impressive obstacle course "Should Lieutenant Reed wish to keep himself in shape." He puts his foot down when Dillard proposes smelting a tiny weight set. There is a limit to Reed's tolerance, and the engineers are pushing it by proposing this … dollhouse.

Once the electronic wiring is installed, Davis hinges on a panel of light, flat metal for a roof, with a square carved out for the ladder. This adds another deck to the building, along with a "falling hazard" as Rhodes points out. Tucker's ears perk up at the implication of a roof without railings, which raises the comment from Dillard about Xyrillian pregnancy, and it's all Davis can do to stave off an argument before setting Billy on the task of securing a four-inch wall around the perimeter of the roof. He doubts that Reed will be happy about the safety guard - any more than he'll appreciate the precautions of a hinged roof just _in case_ he loses consciousness and someone needs to peek in on him - but the captain will be the one shouting if something happens and they have to take the entire house apart just to get Reed out of there.

The last addition to the house - an all day project for twelve engineers, Davis realizes with a start - is a decent set of furniture. Crewmen Taylor and Rostov bicker over whether or not shelves are necessary if there's nothing to fill them. Crewman Eddie, trying to redeem himself for a past mishap involving mislabeled photon torpedo ports, spends the entire day tinkering with a makeshift bunk, and proudly demonstrates to every crewman the control switch that will raise and lower the head. Cheekily Tucker places a small potted cactus in the corner - one that he recently palmed from sickbay, Davis suspects.

Using scraps of cedar he'd brought from Earth, Davis himself carves a sturdy, willowy chair. It's been too long since he last employed his choice hobby and he grieves that one of the slats is uneven, giving the backing of the chair a lopsided appearance. Ensign Massaro plates together a passable table that's clunky compared to the wooden art, but perfectly squared and balanced. She even secures her hand mirror to the wall, remembering what the other engineers have neglected - even in miniature, Lieutenant Reed takes pride in his appearance. Rossi is permitted to knit knit _one_ cushion for the chair, along with an oval rug in dark green. The honor of bed linens, Davis tells her firmly, has already been meted out to Lieutenant Sato.

The furnishing is sparse, and there's no paintwork or pictures, but Davis recollects that Lieutenant Reed doesn't seem to be that fussy of a man. He beckons Commander Tucker over for a second look and is encouraged by the firm clap to his shoulder.

"It'll do just fine," Tucker says. "Let's wrap this up and show it to the captain."

Triumphantly he holds out his palm, revealing a miniscule communicator and phaser. "The phaser can't kill anything," he admits, "But I guess it'll stun a spider if it gets too close."

The joke is morbid and neither engineer laughs. Davis never really considered the hazards accompanying an eighty-three man vessel. Sure, the warp core could blow, taking them all out in a blaze of fire and space dust, but in such a case they all face the same danger. Somebody Malcolm's size has to think about ventilation drafts, electric pulses, floor drains, sliding doors, Phlox's pets…. not to mention people and the captain's dog. Even the lieutenant's quarters is now a death trap.

_You've got the worst luck of all of us, Lieutenant Reed, _Davis contemplates as he lifts the crate with Massaro's assistance and follows Tucker to the lift. _We can't safeguard the entire ship, but at least we can give you a this one sanctuary. Hope you don't have to use it for long._

* * *

Malcolm is ecstatic as he explores his new house. Trip watches his gloom brighten to amusement, accompanied by a mystified fondness as he examines the careful, meticulous craftsmanship made on his behalf. He can see the question clamoring in Malcolm's thoughts. _Why?_

Why would anyone waste an entire day to make his problem a bit more liveable? Trip huffs lightly. Because the idiot who risks himself for every crewman has never looked beyond his duty long enough to realize that his own life is also priceless.

"There's an internal heating system, three light settings, and a fully equipped water closet," Davis gushes, avidly pointing out each feature.

"Only there's no sink," Massaro apologizes. "We had a grand time trying to make a temperature gage for the shower."

"And the privy only drains - it doesn't flush," Davis says with a regretful sigh, "But at least it's got a privacy curtain."

"And a solid roof," Massaro emphasizes. "No one is going to interrupt you in there."

"We should have put a ceiling over the bunk!" Davis hisses. "I knew we were missing something!"

"We discussed that!" his assistant retorts. "What if he oversleeps and goes into a diabetic coma? We had to take some precautions!"

Malcolm folds his arms, none too thrilled about the potential invasion of his privacy _or_ the emphasis on his newly rampart digestive system.

"I also have another contribution," Hoshi reveals, setting a small white box in front of Malcolm. Silver glints as she reveals a delicate, tiny tea set, complete with four square plates, a teapot with a pouring spigot and removable lid, two spoons, and four yunomi cups. "I brought this from my hometown as a way to explain my culture to exchange students. I'm sure it'll suit you better at this time."

Gaping, Malcolm shakes his head. Hoshi rolls her eyes and adds, "In my culture, it's also an insult to refuse a gift."

Mollified, Malcolm taps out an intricate, rapid rhythm. Trip loses track of the dots and dashes almost immediately, but Hoshi blushes.

"It's nothing, really," she insists. "**いえいえ。****" *****

Clearing his throat, Archer steps forward. "As thrilled as I am with all of your amazing contributions, there's still one matter you haven't resolved. Trip, _where is that vocal amplifier?"_

"Oh, I got something better for you," Trip drawls, stooping to offer the communicator and phaser to Malcolm.

Peering down at the commander's hand, Archer squints and states, "You made him a comlink?"

"Rewired it, more like," Trip says. "I figured you wouldn't want the whole crew to listen in every time he cleared his throat. He might be a bit limited for over-the-fence chatting, but you should be able to hear him through that just fine."

Dubiously Archer flips open his communicator. "Same frequency?"

"Shouldn'ta changed," Trip says.

"Captain Archer to Lieutenant Reed," Archer hails uncertainly. "Malcolm, you hear me?"

"I suppose the question is, can you hear _me_, Sir?" The sheepish reply is tinny and faint, but Malcolm's voice travels through without interference.

Laughing, Archer claps Trip's shoulder and exclaims into the speaker, "Loud and clear, Malcolm!"

Davis gives a hollering whoop, while Massaro politely claps. Remembering past fiascos, Trip keeps his trap shut and offers Malcolm a wink and a salute.

"Sir, as long as the engineers are in business, do you suppose they could make me a pair of earmuffs?" Malcolm inquires queasily, holding one hand over his left ear. "It is a bit _noisy_ down here."

Immediately the two celebrators hush, tucking their hands behind their backs. Archer gives them a wry look. "I think we can arrange that."

"Thank you," Malcolm says. "And if I might say, it's good to be communicating on a proper level again."

"Likewise," Archer says with a fond smile. "So tell me about this _sentient being._ What kind of species are we looking for….?"

* * *

******* Note: I did a touch of Japanese research, and the response **いえいえ。****("Lie, iie," or "Leie") is considered a polite response to give when someone says thank you. It means "No, no," which implies that the gift is given freely and the giver does not expect a shower of appreciation.**


	4. Chapter 4

…

The first few hours after Malcolm is permitted to leave sickbay, he tries to behave himself. Phlox has equipped him with a supply of rations; simple, energy sustaining food that won't meddle with his "delicate system."

"I'll slowly incorporate regular proteins into your diet," Phlox assured him. "It won't be long before you're eating the same food as the crew... providing you don't show signs of an allergic reaction."

Because _that_ shows promise with a Denobulan who's obsessed with charting every minute flux in Malcolm's digestive tract. He's through being a guinea pig, and he's weary of inactivity. He spent the morning pacing around Trip's quarters (the captain was concerned that Porthos would regard him as a new chew toy) and familiarizing himself with his altered form. The obstacle course in his "habitat" has proved useful, and he's grateful to Crewman Dillard for thinking of it. He's discovered that he's faster and more agile than he's accustomed to, and his hand and eye coordination is more instinctive than memory based. More than once he volleys over a makeshift climbing wall without thinking about the approach. Ruefully, he wonders if this is how a mouse evades a cat.

By the time he finishes his exercise routine it's still mid-morning. Everyone is busy, tending to his or her post, maintaining the fluid operations of the Enterprise. As for himself... he can't even use a datapad. At least if he could have recalibrated the weapons he would have felt as if he was doing _something_.

As it is, all that is left to Malcolm is his personal log. His communicator now allows him to sync in with the ship's computer, and the first thing he does is give a detailed description of his duties to the captain. The armory will run itself, thanks to the officers he's trained, but someone needs to fill the gap until his unforeseen return.

That person, unfortunately, is designated immediately, without Malcolm's knowledge or approval. He couldn't have objected - the officer knows his job, and he's proved himself to the captain time and again - but it would have been preferable if he'd been given some time to consider his replacement, and not received the news from Hayes himself.

"Major Hayes, reporting to duty as armory officer until you're seen fit to return to your post." There's a bloody pompous gleam in Hayes' eyes as he stands over Malcolm, failing to suppress a cheeky smile. "Captain Archer ordered me to report to you directly. I'm to follow your instructions regarding the details of the armory position."

It's a cruel blow the captain's dealt, sending Hayes here where Malcolm is at his lowest, forcing him to crane his neck to match the Major's amused stare. He doesn't feel it necessary to use his communicator. All of the details are in his report; Major Hayes can read them for himself.

Correctly interpreting his silence, Hayes offers a condescending smile and promises, "Don't worry, Lieutenant. I'll look after your men as if they were my own. They won't even realize you're gone."

If the statement was meant to be comforting, it's only served to further brand Malcolm with the insignificance of his career. One day off the bridge and the captain has already proved how easily he can be replaced. It's no surprise - even the captain's position can and has been filled in a pinch; no one is indispensable - but Malcolm always assumed that there would be TIME before he was swept into the closet. Maybe a nice card, or a tearful word at his funeral. This sudden shift in authority is one more indicator to make him question his place in the captain's "family circle." If not in the armory, where DOES he belong?

"We'll keep the ship running, Lieutenant," Major Hayes says, slightly irked that his "briefing" is turning into a one-sided speech. Fidgeting, he rallies for a conversation starter. "Any advice you have for me?"

Flicking open his communicator, Malcolm says crisply, "Good luck, Major."

He doesn't have to put up with this. Stalking away while Hayes gapes, Malcolm slides down the table leg and joins the major at the door. Retrieving his communicator one more time, he orders, "After you, Major."

Folding his arms, Major Hayes regards him coolly. "I'm afraid the captain hasn't given the all clear for you to leave your quarters yet."

Aghast, Malcolm stares at the MACO leader, refusing to comprehend this last indignance. Banned from his post, shelved while _Hayes_ slips into his position, and now grounded to Trip's quarters for the duration of his curse?

"Sorry, Lieutenant." Shrugging, Hayes offers a two-fingered salute and strides through the door, turning quickly to ensure that Malcolm doesn't lunge after him.

Standing alone as the door closes in his face, hands shaking at his sides, Malcolm slaps the communicator shut and yells his frustration. Who is to care if he loses control? No one can hear him anyways! Stamping to the air vent, he hefts on the grate experimentally and grunts when it slips out of his hands. A bit of leverage and he should be able to prop it open enough to slip through. He'll have to time it, though; he's not sure when the air recycles and it won't do him any good to be swept halfway across the ship.

Dashing back to the table and the cord hanging from the edge, he clambers up and sweeps aside the curtained door to his apartment, flicking on the lights. There's nothing useful inside, except perhaps the teapot, but he won't damage something that belongs to Hoshi. Besides, Trip has his own tools that he tends to leave all over the floor (which has proved to be more of a tripping hazard than Malcolm cares to admit).

It's an easy matter to find an isodine coupler - a harder task to move it, given that the tool is an inch taller than himself. Malcolm settles for rolling it to the vent, then lifting the tool with one hand and cracking the grate open with the other. Jamming the tool inside, he lifts the other end with both hands and shoves it forward until the wider end of the tool settles, leaving him with an inch and a half to squeeze through.

"This is ridiculous," Malcolm mutters to himself, shaking out his aching hands. Leaping up to grab the edge, he wriggles through the gap and cringes when the grate clangs shut behind him. Pushing it open will not be so great a feat, but without his tool he won't be re-entering through the other side. No matter. This is a one-way trip, anyways. He's not going to be locked in his room again, captain's orders or no.

It's a short run from the first hatch to the one entering the hall. Grateful that Starfleet hasn't bothered with locks and bolts screwing the blasted things in place, Malcolm rams his shoulder into the grate and shoves. His breath catches as he falls the short distance, instinctively catching himself in a roll. His body veritably _bounces_ against the floor. Huffing, he notes that lighter bones might be an advantage after all.

His dignity now wallowing somewhere in the transporter room with his five-foot-seven form, Malcolm sticks his chin out and walks forward, ignoring the startled gasp and tripping stumble of a passing crewman. He is Lieutenant Reed, armory officer, eight inches tall, and he is bloody well going to explore his own ship. If the captain can't assign him any duties at his current height, he'll find a way to serve on his own.

* * *

"Trip." Waving the engineer forward, Archer sits back in his chair and points to the Enterprise's view screen. "Anything particular catch your attention?"

Frowning, Trip shrugs. "Looks kinda like Earth. Water, land mass, vegetation... Pretty much the same as the last time we were around."

"Starfleet calls this one "Planet Q,"' Archer says thoughtfully. "The reason behind our visit was to find another habitable planet for future colonists. Q is one among several planets that Starfleet wants to consider for an established settlement."

"So we're just alphabetizing planets now," Trip says dryly. "I thought we'd come up with something interesting, like Alderaan or Aphrodite."

"The planet already has a name according to its inhabitants," Archer points out. "Starfleet just needs a classification. Don't get off topic, now. Look at the culture notes that Hoshi's been compiling."

"Okay..." Briefly Trip skims the paragraphs and shrugs. "What am I looking for?"

"It mentions one of their deities," Archer explains, pointing to the fourth section. "One of their legends, so to speak - like the gods in the Grecian myths."

"Mischievous, huh?" Trip smirks as he reads the brief description. "Kinda sounds like Loki."

"It's worth mentioning to the locals," Archer says. "Hoshi will set up the contact. If we can't find any information up here, though, we may need to send a boarding party."

"And you're letting me volunteer this time, right?" Trip perks up, eagerly studying the view screen.

"Nope." Smirking at the commander's crestfallen face, Archer elaborates, "I need you to look after Malcolm. Keep him distracted. I don't want him overreacting if he learns another team's been sent down. Phlox's instructions are to keep his heart rate down; don't let him get too excited."

"Really." Rolling his eyes, Trip looks longingly at the blue planet. He finally has a second chance to check her out and he's stuck babysitting an eight-inch lieutenant. "Malcolm ain't gonna like this."

"That's why it's your job to - "

The captain's statement is cut off as his communicator chimes. "Archer," he says briskly.

Trip already knows it's bad news. _I told the captain we shouldn't send in MACO_ yet. Poor Malcolm had probably run Hayes down and shot him in the heel. Never arm a tiny angry person, even with a stun phaser.

"Captain, I just brought Lieutenant Reed down to sickbay," Travis says apologetically. "He was outside the turbo lift."

"I'll take that," Phlox overrides him. "You'd better have a word with your lieutenant, Captain. Ensign Mayweather discovered him in the hall. His blood sugar count is dangerously low, and I believe the ensign might have hurled him several feet."

"I didn't see him, I swear!" Travis exclaims.

"I _said_ he needed a bodyguard detail," Archer snarls, marching to the turbolift.

"How'd he even get out?" Trip challenges. "Think about it, Captain. He's the armory officer. He knows every crevice of the ship. Even if you posted guards he'd find a way to sneak past them."

"He made it all the way to the turbolift," Archer snaps. "Someone should have reported it!"

"I'm sure they thought he was supposed to be there," Trip muses. "Frankly, I think so too."

"_What?"_ Archer rails, swerving to face him.

"C'mon, Captain," Trip wheedles, forgoing his regard for authority in exchange for a little reason. "We're talking about Malcolm here. He's not gonna sit around while his brain's blazing. That mine put a dang _hole_ in his leg and he was still trying to hobble around the engineering deck."

"I did everything but order him to stay," Archer berates. "I expected him to respect his position. He's not in any state to be wandering the ship!"

"We haven't given him any alternative," Trip implies.

"Alternative? What alternative?" Archer questions. "He can't arm a torpedo, or

"So what's he supposed to do during the day?" Trip concludes. "Gets kinda quiet down there when everyone else is at their post."

"There's nothing he _can_ do," Archer says, regret purging his aggravation. "If I could assign him a chore I would. He's just so ... small... and fragile. Just look what happened!"

"I'm thinking that if the crew was aware of him hiking around, we wouldn't have to worry so much about accidents," Trip mildly suggests. "Besides, he can't get into much trouble if he's... say... mapping out a datasheet for a new kind of phase cannon."

Archer scoffs. "You want him to investigate new weapons technology."

"Can't hurt," Trip reasons. "Might keep him locked down to a chair for a few hours."

"He can't even use a datapad," Archer points out softly.

"He can draw, can't he?" Trip says unflappably. He keeps his gaze on the passing flights, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Archer's shoulders slump and he knows he's caving. "So do it the old fashioned way. Pencil and paper. He could probably make some progress talking it through with the computer. I'm sure I could set up a program for him..."

Sighing, Archer shakes his head. "You really think that would help?"

Straightforward, Trip tells him, "Cap'n, no one wants to feel so small that he thinks the world's moved on without him."

"Or the ship," Archer murmurs. Clearing his throat, he fixes Trip with a bemused stare. "You realize it's your responsibility to find him a suitable occupation - other than scrubbing the floorboards."

"Number one priority?" Trip says ruefully.

"Better not keep you from maintaining those engines," Archer quips.

With a silent whoop and a fist pump, Trip follows him out of the turbolift. He'll keep Malcolm scurrying. There's gotta be a thousand (nonhazardous) ways a mini-man can be useful around the ship. The captain's been wanting him to dig the grit out from underneath the food replicator, for starters...

* * *

Malcolm is awake, but agitated when Archer and Trip arrive. His forehead sports a purpling bruise and his uniform is scuffed. Phlox offers him no sympathy.

"Miraculously, his smaller frame served in his favor," the vexed Denobulan tells the captain. "I might compare it to booting an Earthen mouse across the proverbial farmyard; no bones are broken, and he will bounce back easily."

"Want to explain to me what happened?" Archer says, folding his arms and looking down at his lieutenant. It's hard to take Malcom seriously, particularly when he's half a pint's mass of abject misery, but he can't let this infraction slide. "What were you doing out there, Malcolm?"

Seated on the edge of the counter, Malcolm idly kicks out his dangling feet, giving Archer a vague impression of a wayward officer spending the evening in the brig. Awkwardly the tactical officer admits into his communicator, "I was heading to the engineering deck, Sir."

"Oh, that is the worst place right now….." Trip mutters.

"I gave you orders to stay in your quarters," Archer says.

"Respectfully, Sir," Malcolm says tensely, "You passed along orders that Major Hayes wasn't to open the door for me. In his words, 'You hadn't given the all clear.' You never gave me any orders to stay put."

Eyebrows flying high, Trip glances at the captain and fights down a smirk. "I figured he'd get his dander up if we sent MACO in there."

Ignoring his commander, Archer weighs his own misgivings against Malcolm's impertinent logic. "You're saying that I have to give you a direct order if I want you to behave responsibly," he summarizes.

Malcolm's shoulders slump. "That isn't what I meant, Sir."

"But it seems to be the implication," Archer says. "I give orders for the safety and wellbeing of the crew. I don't expect my officers to question them like academy students."

He catches Malcolm's flinch and continues, "This isn't easy for any of us. One of my best officers is out of commission. We all have to compensate. I expected you to cooperate with Major Hayes for the sake of the crew. I don't care if the crew answers to MACO or Starfleet as long as the job gets done."

Soundly thrashed, Malcolm stares down at his knees. "And what _exactly_ do you want _me_ to do, Sir?"

There's no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. Had he lost a leg in a firefight he could have hobbled out of sickbay weeks later, fit to serve if not to manage his original post. Even if he was blinded, medical technology was advancing to a state where he could still secure an occupation back on Earth.

There are no positions designated for ant-sized crewmen.

"I want you to stop moping around," Archer says, gentleness edging the command that he knows will nudge Malcolm out of his resigned state. "I need the torpedo banks recalibrated and the security codes updated on the weapons lockers. You've got time for that now; Trip will modulate the system to answer to voice commands."

Aspiration washes over Malcolm's face as he straightens. "Anything else, Sir?"

Wryly Archer adds, "You still haven't found a tolerable audio replacement for your 'Tactical Alert.'"

Sheepishly Malcolm grins. "If I can manage that without a datapad… it shouldn't take very long, Sir."

"I'll have Trip get to it." Sighing, Archer addresses the final problem. "I don't want to restrict you to your quarters," he aceeds. "You're already limited in your activities, and I don't want to cut you off from the rest of the crew. In that case, I need you to respect some boundaries."

Waiting to ensure he has Malcolm's full attention, Archer lists off, "The engineering deck and the ventilation shafts are off limits. Stay out of the walkways and busy areas; I can't expect everyone to be constantly watching the floor. Try to stick close to the walls. You'll probably need someone to open the doors for you, so if you need help don't hesitate to ask for a hand."

"It's the Enterprise's first 'Open Door' policy," Trip announces grandly. His eyes widen innocently at Archer's glare.

"Try to stay out of trouble," Archer directs to Malcolm. "And that _is_ an order."

Nodding, Malcolm answers fervently, "I think I can comply, Sir."

"Anything else I should settle now?" Archer asks, rounding on Trip.

"Actually, there is something," Phlox pipes in. "Perhaps you can remind Lieutenant Reed that proper nutrition is vital in his current state and he'll be of little use to the ship if he keeps fainting in the corridors."

"You heard him," Archer states, ignoring Malcolm's faint, outraged squawk. "No more skipping meals."

"I still don't see why I can't get something from the mess hall like everyone else," Malcolm gripes, his face twisted in revulsion.

"I told you, resequenced proteins are questionable in this stage, and I don't have a complete list of the enzymes your system is accustomed to," Phlox answers serenely. "A few more days, Lieutenant."

Shrugging sympathetically at Malcolm's pleading look, Archer tells him, "Doctor's orders."

"Tell me you've contacted the planet," Malcolm implores him.

"Hoshi's still patching through. Give her another few hours."

"In the meantime," Phlox says, stirring up a grey paste in a small glass jar, "I've diluted a few of my ointments. It should speed the healing process on those bruises."

"Try not to add to them," Archer gives the parting shot, snatching his opportunity to slip out the door. Trip follows him with a wry grin.

"You know he's stuck in there until Phlox opens the door, right?"

"That's his problem," Archer says. "You realize how much trouble this is going to be for the crew? Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face. "We need to implement a Reed Alert."

Trip's face screws up. "A tactical alert just for Malcolm?"

"No. A _Reed Alert_," Archer emphasizes. "Something to alert the crew if Malcolm's in the area. We can't have everyone looking at their feet all the time. Can you pin something to his uniform, or reconfigure his communicator so that the crew will be notified whenever he enters a room? It doesn't have to be anything noticeable - no alarms. Just a notice above the door or something where he can't see it."

"When I suggested the 'Reed Alert' back then, I never thought it would go into action," Trip admits, grinning slyly. "I think I can manage that."

"Good." Nodding, Archer rises, signifying the end of the conversation. "Prioritize that above the voice command system. I don't want to see Malcolm carried back to sickbay in a hanky if someone finds him on the bottom of their shoe."


	5. Chapter 5

The "Reed Alert" is put into play before Malcolm is released from sickbay. Getting Malcolm to wear it is the easy part: all Trip has to do is place a tiny implant in the earmuffs that Davis designs to minimize the noise in the halls. As soon as Malcolm snatches them away he trots off, and Trip knows he won't go anywhere without them. The trouble will be keeping Malcolm from noticing that every third light is triggered to dim to a dull red as soon as the sensors pick up on his signal. Phlox has assured him that Malcolm's ability to recognize color has been recently stunted, but the lieutenant wasn't put in charge of the armory for nothing. He's compelled to notice environmental changes.

And then there's the one member of the crew who's oblivious to warning signals and personal boundaries…..

"Porthos, no!"

Lunging forward, Travis grapples for the dog as Malcolm flails backwards. Yipping, a confused Porthos wriggles in Travis' arms, while T'Pol stoops to examine Malcolm. Saliva plasters the lieutenant's hair and his entire front.

"Lieutenant Reed, are you injured?" T'Pol asks curtly.

Flicking moisture off his hands, Malcolm wipes them on a dry patch of his uniform and then paws around for his communicator. His answer is frazzled, but not pained. "Just my dignity."

"Maybe we should keep Porthos in the captain's quarters for now," Travis suggests.

Pondering this, T'Pol shakes her head. "If the lieutenant wants to traipse around the Enterprise, he will have to accustom himself to all potential threats." She turns to look at Porthos and instructs, "Put him down."

"Uh…. Is that a good idea?" Travis questions.

"Interaction under supervision is the first step in interspecies relationships," T'Pol says. "Porthos is already familiar with Lieutenant Reed; acquainting him with an altered form should not instigate a volatile reaction."

"Ok..ay…." Travis concedes, cautiously setting down the dog.

Immediately Porthos patters over to investigate the very small human in the room. Raising one arm to ward off a slimy nose, Malcolm ducks and snickers as more saliva slops over his face.

"Do you think…." he breaks off as one lap of a tongue encompasses his entire arm. "Do you think the captain will let me ride him?"

Raising one eyebrow, T'Pol rises from her crouch. "In your condition, I would not advise drawing any more attention to yourself. Also, you should be aware that some animals carry diseases in their saliva."

"It's hardly my fault!" Malcolm protests, batting off the enthusiastic beagle. "He's like an overgrown puppy! Blegh! He smells worse than I remember. Now I know what the captain's been feeding him."

Looking forlornly at his sodden uniform, he admits reluctantly, "I suppose I'll have to ask Hoshi to make me some new uniforms after all…."

* * *

"Arms….six centimeters….. Waist…. seven centimeters….."

Malcolm balks uncomfortably as the tape measure winds around his rear end. _Tell me this won't last another ten minutes._

"Hips: ten centimeters," Hoshi says. "That's all the measurements. I can have the first jumpsuit ready by tomorrow. Rossi let me use a spare uniform for fabric; it shouldn't feel too different from what you're used to."

Grateful _that_ part is over, Malcolm tugs his uniform back over his underclothes and yanks up the zipper. Hoshi is equal parts amused and sympathetic. "I heard that Porthos found you in the Rec hall," she says, fishing around in her pocket. "Phlox gave me a soap recipe that's strong enough to remove the stench - I know you won't want your clothing lost in the ship's laundry."

Tilting her hand, she cups a few slivers of soap into Malcolm's hands. The odor of pine boughs and lime assails him.

"I've never had trouble with pet smells after using this," Hoshi says.

Given the overwhelming reek of a campfire in the tropics, Malcolm isn't surprised. Then again, everything had smelled sharper and stronger lately. At least the soap smells better than dog breath - even after rinsing his uniform in the shower he couldn't get the cheesy taint out.

"I'll whip up a couple of jumpsuits and some shirts," Hoshi promises. "The only things I can't make are underclothes and socks."

That's quite all right - Porthos doesn't chew on those anyways, and it's embarrassing enough that Hoshi is measuring him in millimeters without hand-stitching his underwear. There is one thing that Malcolm needs for… further exploits.

"Do you suppose you could make me a pack?" he asks. Hoshi looks down, perturbed, and Malcolm realizes he had been so caught up in the one-sided exchange that he had forgotten his communicator. Setting down the soap bars, he digs out his communicator and asks again, "I need a pack. For travelling." How ridiculous that he has to _plan_ out his day just to walk to another deck. "I don't suppose you have patterns for those?"

"Oh, that's easy enough!" Hoshi assures him. "Do you need a place to store your uniforms, too? Davis was mentioning that they forgot to install a locker. I can send him a word if you like."

Warmed by the unfettered generosity of the crew, Malcolm nods. He'll find some way to repay them once this is over.

"Trip says to page the corridor outside if you want to leave," Hoshi says, gathering up her tape measure and notes. "There's always someone passing through. Also? Phlox told me to make sure you eat in ten minutes."

"It doesn't constitute as food it if has the texture of pine shavings," Malcolm gripes. He takes a whiff of the soap and grimaces. Not much difference there.

"Sorry I can't make you another pineapple cake," Hoshi sympathizes.

"No matter," Malcolm murmurs to himself. One of these days he's going to be quite fed up with Phlox's modified protein philosophy. He's supposed to _behave_, but he's also expected to eat fifteen times a day. The captain can have one or the other.

"_Try_ not to do anything the captain wouldn't approve of," Hoshi says wryly, already guessing his train of thought.

Perfectly guileless, Malcolm spreads out his hands. As if _he _could cause trouble in his woebegotten state. What did they expect him to do - chew through cables?

"Whatever it is you're planning, I had nothing to do with it," Hoshi says, firmly holding out her hand. Holding back a snicker, she makes a hasty exit, leaving Malcolm to plot out his afternoon.

He won't get into any fiascos - today. Trip is still fussing around with the voice command program, but Malcolm can withstand the idleness for one afternoon. As soon as he has the proper gear to leave his habitat for a couple hours, he's going to hike down to the gymnasium. He could do with a proper run.


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm's not stupid. He knows what a bad idea looks like. He's certainly helped Trip with more than a few schemes. He even single handedly baited the Silubans, and nearly goaded the captain into shooting him once. (So maybe they were all under a the influence of a neuron imbalance - the tactical alert is still nominated as one of his less brilliant obsessions). In every wise and practical sense, Malcolm knows how to behave in a responsible manner. There's just some days when the inner Reed wants to blow something up.

So he isn't all that alarmed when the ludicrous notion strikes him to test out his merit in the full-sized gymnasium. He's fragile, granted, and a little easy to miss by his fellow tramping officers, but he's nimble and intuitive and he won't make the same mistake of stepping out in front of a chattering ensign. He can handle a few hours at the gym.

Besides, it's 0200 and the only crewmen awake will be at the ones yawning at their posts. He'll practically have the entire deck to himself.

Thus encouraged, Malcolm gathers what he needs and packs it into his small satchel. It's a serviceable bag, if not fancy, sewn from the same blue cloth as the extra shirt and jumpsuit Hoshi gave him the evening before. It's sizable enough to hold a few sawdust nutrition bricks and a coil of string on a dull fishhook - Trip's lazy alternative to constructing a small staircase for every high surface on the ship. Confident he'll need nothing else for a few hours, Malcolm springs down the wire ladder and scampers to the doorway, climbing over the pair of socks that Trip wedged between the doors. (Small animals, apparently, tend to be nocturnal, and the conflict between Trip's sleeping patterns and Malcolm's boredom was finally settled with a makeshift "cat door," allowing him to come and go as he pleased.)

As predicted, the hall is empty at this hour, and Malcolm lights off at an easy, confident jog. Running is an entirely new experience in this form. He can tumble and summersault, lunge and leap, and land as lightly as a cat (or in Trip's favorite new comparison, a furless kangaroo rat). Climbing up and down from every bloody counter and table seems effortless, as though he's operating in zero gravity, and sometimes Malcolm marvels that his feet remain on the ground at all.

He wonders if he could best his original times in the gym - not in weight lifting, of course, he's not that reckless - but he has an inkling that he could outrun T'Pol if he tried.

Malcolm's aspirations are brought to a swift and dismal end the moment he reaches the gymnasium. Impulsive as he was, he completely forgot about needing a crewman to open the doors.

"Would it be so hard to make a sensor to open the bloody things?" Malcolm mutters, mentally ranting against Trip for not thinking of the obvious. He's _ years old. He shouldn't have to ask every upstart, chortling crewman to let him through!

A faint rumble under his feet warns him that he's not alone in the hall. Aware that romping in the gymnasium might be on the "reasonably unsafe" list, Malcolm tucks himself into the corner and waits for the fellow night owl to pass. His mouth goes dry as casual running shoes stop three feet short of his position. Yawning cavernously (doesn't anyone realize how _disgusting_ that is?), Archer rubs his gritty eyes and slaps a hand onto the door panel.

Well. Seeing as the captain himself opened the door, Malcolm sees that as an informal invitation. Although he doesn't approve when Archer doesn't even notice the light, pattering tread that echoes between his long strides. A man should be more aware of his surroundings, particularly at this time of night.

But no, Archer remains oblivious to his tagalong lieutenant as he stamps onto the treadmill and flicks a few settings. He starts off at a light jog, his brow furrowed as he unravels whatever tangle is disrupting his sleep.

_You as well,_ Malcolm empathizes as he sets down his pack. Of all of them, the captain deserves a hearty night's sleep. The lives of - 8- men and women depend on his decisions every day. More than a commander, he's acted as counselor, fellow crewman, leader, and watcher to each one of them. Malcolm never knew a superior officer who would put the lives of his crew above his own command - until he commissioned aboard the Enterprise.

He hopes the captain knows that no matter the circumstance, whether a repeat of the Xindi hatchery or the Ilyrian vessel, his crew will never betray him. He deserves no less than their devout loyalty.

It truly is an honor, Malcolm thinks with sardonic irony, that he has an opportunity to follow in his captain's footsteps. Quite literally. The captain's pace is an easy saunter for him; all he has to mind is that he doesn't overstep himself and canter straight into a plodding shoe. Within a few minutes the speed increases, setting Malcolm at a vaguely uphill jaunt, and then the fun begins.

He does a fine job acclimating to the move of the treadmill. The faster the settings, the better he understands his own capacities. He estimates he has to take about ten steps for each of Archer's strides. That said, he's pacing himself at around five hundred steps per minute and he's still breathing as calmly as if if he was strolling along the harbor. Another notch in speed and he glides into the rhythm, his boots soundless against the fibreboard. He reckons he could easily best T'Pol at this rate.

Disaster strikes in an instant. In hindsight Malcolm realizes he should have expected it sooner or later. Archer merely spares a glance at his feet and suddenly he flails backwards, rump smacking the treadmill board before he shoots towards the wall. Yelping, Malcolm throws himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the collosal mountain that bumbles past him. He has three seconds to realize he's in trouble before the ground zooms beneath him and he finds himself speeding uncontrollably towards the edge of the fibreboard - and the three inch space where he will be squashed and sheared into miniscule pieces.

Just before his head grazes the frame a hand claps over him, slapping him through the air and into a whirling tumble. The captain snatches out with his opposite hand, drops him, and finally snags him two-handed, centimeters from the floor. Blinking dazedly, Malcolm waits for the ceiling to right itself and flinches when a pair of livid blue eyes loom above him.

"What the devil are you doing here, Malcolm?" Archer bellows. "You almost got yourself killed!"

Cringing, Malcolm slaps his hands over his ears, realizing belatedly that he hadn't even thought to bring his earmuffs.

Clenching his teeth, Archer forces himself to rant softly, "Blast it, Malcolm! I didn't even know you were in here! What did you think you were doing?"

"Exercising, Sir?" Malcolm stutters. Ah, yes. No communicator, either. It's still in his bag.

Hissing, Archer lumbers to his feet, no doubt favoring a few bruised limbs. "Where's your communicator? I _told_ Trip a vocal amplifier would be more practical."

Gesturing hastily to the floor, Malcolm points out his bag and winces when Archer growls. "Of all the hairbrained..." Archer mutters, stooping down to upturn the lieutenant next to his bag. Tramping to the door, he pounds his fist into the communications console. "Malcolm, respond."

"I was exercising, Sir," Malcolm says, tripping over his words as he nearly drops the communicator.

"And you thought you needed a treadmill? Trip and Davis built you your own obstacle course!" Archer reasons. "What's wrong with running a few laps around the room?"

Logically, it really was a stupid idea. "It's... not the same," Malcolm admits. Mice and hamsters run in circles in their exercise balls. He refuses to stoop that low.

"For pity's sake, why does _everything_ have to be difficult with you?" Archer groans. Raking a hand through his hair, he firmly shakes his head. "Absolutely no. This will _not_ happen again. I didn't think I'd have to do this, but the gym is on your ban list, Malcolm."

Contritely, Malcolm nods. "I'll keep it to my room, Sir."

"That shouldn't have been up for debate!" There's fear underlying the anger in Archer's voice. "I've already made a lot of exceptions for you, Malcolm, but if you keep pulling these stunts I won't hesitate to ground you until you're at least tall enough to fill a shoe. I don't want to have to scrape you off the floor if one of those weights drops on you!"

"Understood, Sir," Malcolm swears. "No more unnecessary risks."

"There'd better not be!" Rolling his eyes, Archer crouches and agitatedly waves his hand. "Hop on. I'm returning you to your quarters until further notice."

Malcolm balks. He hasn't allowed anyone to carry him - not since the first day when he was found on the transporter platform. Archer isn't brooking for any argument, however, so reluctantly he shoulders his bag and steps onto the captain's palm. The rush of air is as disconcerting and terrifying as he remembers. There's more control in a crashing shuttlepod than the trembling pulse of someone's hand. One trip or stumble and he's liable to go flying.

Archer's stride is confident and assured, however, and his arm holds steady as he heads towards Trip's quarters. The tension lining his fingers tells Malcolm that he's not off the hook yet. There will probably be some reasonable discipline involved. He'll be lucky not to be restricted to quarters for the duration of his curse.

At least Trip will get a laugh out of it, when he hears of the captain's inglorious tumble. Two such incidents in one week. They haven't even finished circulating the footage of the first shenanigan among the entire crew yet.

Stifling a shameless chortle, Malcolm soothes his ruffled dignity with the memory of Archer toppling onto the treadmill. He smooths his face into a serious expression when the captain keys Trip's door.

"S'open," Trip mutters from inside.

Grunting as he spies the pair of socks wedged into the gap, Archer scoops them up and tosses them at Trip's head. Blinking awake, engineer wriggles his assaulted nose and yawns, squinting over at Malcolm. "Where was he this time?"

"Nowhere he should be," Archer states. Tilting his hand, he eases Malcolm onto the table and informs Trip, "He's restricted to quarters until further notice. Don't listen to anything he tells you."

"Oh. That kind of trouble." Snorting, Trip looks on blearily as Malcolm sets down his bag and straightens to attention. "Is he grounded?"

"Maybe." Archer folds his arms, giving Malcolm several agonizing moments to ponder his fate. "I don't care what size shoe you wear. As long as you're wearing that Starfleet uniform, you're still on call for duty, Lieutenant. No more stunts."

The reprimand feels more like an affirmation than a rebuke. In a sense, Archer is elevating him back to his original position. On call for duty: no one can argue that he's still an acting member of the crew. Act like it, the captain has implied.

"Aye, Sir," Malcolm says softly, giving a sharp salute.

Closing his eyes, Archer rubs the bridge of his nose. "Trip, I want my armory officer equipped with a voice amplifier _tomorrow_. I don't care if I hear his every grunt, swallow and holler - finish it!"

"Yeah, on it," Trip agrees, his smirk receding now that he's in the hot seat.

"Uh-huh." Stifling a yawn, the captain waves them off. "Malcolm gets to clean under the replicator tomorrow. Consider that full due for his harebrained delinquency. YOU can keep an eye on him while you finish that amplifier."

"Consider it done," Trip assures with false cheer. Archer snorts, unconvinced, and makes his exit. The doors shut with gloomy finality - Malcolm had gotten used to the dull thunk of stockings barring their path.

"Well, since we're both now awake," Trip gripes, clambering out from under the covers and yanking on a pair of undershorts, "May as well get started on the captain's project."

"Speak for yourself," Malcolm mutters, though he knows he won't be heard. "I'm going to bed."

He slings his bag over his shoulder and slinks into his apartment (hand-stitched sheets aside, it's _still_ a habitat for something the size of a gerbil), and tosses the pouch onto the side table where he's storing his uniforms. Another day has ended in frustration, leaving him wondering when he will return to his original state. He's been off duty long enough. Computer programs and tactical plans aren't enough to fill in what he's used to doing - burrowing into crawl spaces, adjusting the transmitters by hand, weighing the balance of a photon torpedo, guarding the backs of the crewmen around him. He's tired of pacing idly while the crew watches out for him. It's high time they found this "native god" and put everything back in order.

…


	7. Chapter 7

Hoshi winces in concern as Archer exits his ready room, his shoulders rigid and his eyes dredged with shadow. Lately he's seemed more lethargic by the day. Anxiety for his crew drains him more than any battle. "Another late night, Captain?" she asks quietly.

"No." Archer snorts, practically flopping into his chair. "I just have an ant-sized headache."

Perplexed, Hoshi looks at Travis, who gives her a clueless shrug. T'Pol condenses the odd comment by stating, "You are making an exaggeration based on Lieutenant Reed's current height."

"Yes, that's a very astute observation, T'Pol," Archer retorts.

"What happened this time?" Travis asks before Hoshi can shush him.

"Never mind," Archer says darkly. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and nods towards the view screen. "Any answers?"

"Not really," Hoshi says queasily as she sets down her headset. "They said they never heard of an instance of someone shrinking, but we may have exasperated their 'god of mischief.'"

"Again with the god of mischief?" Archer says derisively. "He's practically the excuse for every bumble and mishap on the planet. Okay, how have we angered their god? This time?"

"This is nothing like the incident with the Kreetassans," T'Pol intones. "This deity is said to be responsible for any unusual happenstance in the cosmos. The people want nothing to do with him."

"They won't even let us send another away team," Hoshi adds. "They're worried he may turn his wrath on them if they harbor any more of the crew."

"Harbor?" Scoffing, Archer flings out his hands. "Two men beamed down. We were gone for three hours. When did we have time to incur a god's wrath?"

"It took Porthos twenty seconds to void on a sacred tree," T'Pol comments. She inclines her head and clarifies, "In our experience with alien cultures, a simple offense can occur within any time period."

Leaning back in his chair, Archer clapped the armrests and focused on the green planet below. "So what apology are we supposed to make to their god?" he inquired with a lace of sarcasm.

"They're not asking for an apology," Hoshi says, wriggling in her chair. Her shoulders are starting to ache from the constant tension. Given Travis's lopsided posture, and the subtle line in T'Pol's brow, none of the senior officers are faring any better. "They're requesting that we leave their planet."

"With one of my men out of commission? Potentially for good?" Archer leaps from his chair and begins to pace, indignation reenergizing his agitated state. "Tell them that until we make contact with their mischief maker, we'll continue orbiting the planet. I'm not leaving until I have my armory officer back."

"They're not going to like hearing that..." Hoshi mutters, reaching for her headset. She activates the channel and falters, catching that _sound_ once more; a whisper from someone else's channel.

Maybe it's only her imagination. Pulling extra shifts at the communications hub must have addled her hearing. They're at least three Earth years away from any Ilyrian vessel.

* * *

"I don't want to know what's been stewing under their for eighteen months." Squinting at the disk he's holding between tweezers under the magnifier, Trip toggles an errant wire. Essentially he's just equipping Malcolm with an old-fashioned microphone, much like the ones they used for filming sets and musical recordings back in the twenty-first century. Considering it's half the size of an antique watch battery, he figures he'd be well off patenting it once Malcolm is back to his charming ol' nagging self. Never know when they might try equipping flying squirrels for intel purposes.

Glancing at the food replicator again (_ew_, did all that black gunk accumulate since he cleaned it out last?), Trip calls airily, "How's it going, Lieutenant?"

He reckons Malcolm's hands are too full to respond verbally, 'cause there's an inordinate amount of clanking in response. His ears feel scalded anyway - he probably just got cussed out in morse code.

"I told ya to call me if you needed anything." Not like _that_ would get very far. Malcolm was more likely to ask him to decompress the airlock than to admit he needed a "little" help. Ah, the puns and references were too tempting sometimes. Why couldn't Travis have been shrunk, or someone with a decent sense of humor?

Stomach rumbling, Trip casts down the magnifier and sets the amplifier in a petri dish (courtesy of Phlox's Pharmacy, it's the most valuable piece of equipment in the room after the _last_ amplifier bounced into somebody's bowl of porridge). "Hey, Malcolm! Want to give it a rest? I need a cup'a Joe." And a decent breakfast, though he's a bit loathe to eat it in front of a moping armory officer. Being stuck on a simple protein diet _sucks_.

Face and uniform smeared in black tar, Malcolm crawls out from beneath the replicator and fixes Trip with his most vehement glare. Yeah, Trip doesn't blame him. He doubts that Archer intends for Malcolm to clean the whole of the replicator - with the size of his dishrag it'll take him three months and a couple thousand itty-bitty buckets of soap. _Then again, maybe the captain knows __**exactly**_ _what he's doing_. Whatever the case, Trip's not waiting another fortnight for coffee.

"How's it coming?" he asks conversationally as he sets a cup underneath the replicator. He glances down and can't smother a grin. Malcolm looks ready to throw a wrench into the warp core. Still, he's _Malcolm, _and Trip figures that if it takes him a year he'll make that replicator so spick and span you could serve toast on it.

Mmm, toast and blueberry jam, with a couple flapjacks, a double helping of scrambled eggs, and a southern hash. Replicator food doesn't taste quite like the stuff from home, but it's close enough.

_"_And sausages," Trip adds to his order last minute. Call resequenced protein what you will, those fluffy yellow eggs and sizzling pork rounds look better than any dehydrated "moon rations" the astronauts used to eat. Grabbing his plate, Trip looks apologetically at Malcolm and tells him, "I'll be just a minute."

Maybe it's just a tad mean for the captain to expect him to clean the food replicators. A man can only put up with smelling decent food in the mess hall for so long before -

Before Trip can even set down his plate, a dull fish hook clanks over the table and catches on the rim. Dang, Malcolm's fast as a monitor lizard when he wants to get somewhere. Limber as any sailor, the wee officer vaults over the table edge and plants himself stubbornly beside Trip's plate.

"Uh-uh," Trip rebukes, jabbing at Malcolm with a fork. "Phlox said no complex proteins yet. 'Sides, you haven't taken your allergy injections in a week. Wanna think about what a couple funky enzymes would do to you?"

Flamboyantly flicking out his communicator, Malcolm announces, "I'm hosting a rebellion."

Trip chokes on his eggs. Spluttering around a mouthful of half-chewed food, he interjects, "Didn't the captain say to _not_ start any more trouble?"

Unfazed, Malcolm says blithely, "I'm supposed to eat frequently - captain's orders."

"Yeah, well _Phlox_ is going to have a hissy fit when he finds out you've been breaking your diet," Trip retorts, emphasizing his argument with a jab at Malcolm's side satchel where he knows the lieutenant's been stashing his hamster chow.

Scowling, Malcolm bats aside the fork and reaches out with his grimy hands, snagging a chunk of scrambled egg. Trip claps a fist against his mouth and falls against the back of his chair, grimacing in disgust.

"Okay, that's just nasty. I don't even want to know what was under that replicator!"

Malcolm's satisfied glower implies that he doesn't care whether or not his hands are clean, and if that means he gets Trip's entire plate to himself, he'll be quite satisfied with the day's work.

"If that gives you indigestion, I'm not cleaning the lavatory in your habitat," Trip warns. Sighing, he crooks an arm around his plate and divies out micro portions of toast, sausage, and hash. "Captain's not gonna be too happy about this."

"No allergic reactions yet," Malcolm mumbles into the communicator, already stuffing his face with crumbs of toast. "Successful experiment."

_Bad idea to assign Malcolm to replicator duty, Captain, _Trip scolds, shaking his head_**. Bad idea.**_

Because from now on, the lieutenant is going to be unstoppable. Trip sees the future as plain as day. Malcolm's gonna be there fifteen times a day - at least six times a night - accosting every passing crewmember with his itty-bitty cup and plate, siphoning a bit of anything that pleases him from their meal tray. "No Hawaiian barbecue," he warns. "Bromelain, remember?"

Gagging on a bit of sausage, Malcolm looks up with the most affronted look plastered on his little face. "Who told you that?"

Sniggering, Trip stabs a forkful of eggs and refuses to answer. He's content to let Malcolm stew on that for a while. Besides, he promised Hoshi he'll never tell how she guessed that pineapple is Malcolm's favorite.

* * *

"It was a foolish action on his part, taking chances on foreign substances," Phlox says as he holds the medscanner over Malcolm's shivering body and delicately hands him a cut square of kleenex. "However, this is not an allergic reaction nor a sign of indigestion. He merely has a slight fever due to an out of proportion cold. Might I suggest that you keep him out of replicators contaminated with several months' worth of accumulated filth. Also, I mentioned to the captain that he might be highly sensitive to certain solvents and cleaning agents."

"Now he tells me," Tucker mutters. It wasn't until fifth breakfast that Malcolm began sniffling, and by noon he was complaining of a walloping headache. Lil' buggers were highly prone to viruses apparently, 'cause it wasn't long after that when Malcolm did a spectacular face plant after tripping over his suds bucket.

Carrying him to sickbay had garnered more than a few awed chuckles from passing crewmen. Trip doubts the captain will be equally amused when he hears that his lieutenant nearly drowned in three centimeters of soapy water.

"Can't keep outta trouble for a second, can ya?" Trip says, shaking his head at Malcolm.

The Englishman makes an inarticulate but clearly derogatory gesture before mumbling thickly to Phlox, "Idn't der sobthing for dis?"

"In your dosage? I'm afraid not," Phlox says unsympathetically. "You'll just have to wait it out. And now that you've proved yourself capable of digesting dubious protein matter, I suggest a restricted diet of plomeek soup. It's easier on the stomach."

Groaning, Malcolm coughs into another kleenex square. Trip cringes at the muted, wet hack.

"Isn't there something you can give him?"

"In his condition?" Phlox says, affronted. "He wouldn't survive the cure! His immune system was already tenuous when he was full-sized. Imagine how his reconstructed molecules are responding to the atmosphere around him? Do you know how many human viruses can be found aboard this ship? It's little wonder he hasn't expired from an exasperated outbreak of the measles, or the pox!"

"C'mom, we're all inoculated for that," Trip points out.

"Certainly, but there's no telling which of his former immunizations have broken down over the transformation," Phlox reasons. "He could be vulnerable to any manner of diseases. That's one more reason I advised him to restrict his activities to sickbay for the duration of his condition."

"Like the bat won'd kill mbe," Malcolm retorts snidely.

"Asuga merely wanted to smell you," Phlox says. "Pyrithian bats largely consume snow beetles and moth larvae - I highly doubt she would consider a screaming, flapping reed to be all that appetizing."

"Wait, did you just make a Reed joke?" Trip pipes in. Huh! So the Denobulan doctor has it in him after all. Too bad the humor is lost on Malcolm. Eesh, even Porthos would've been funnier in miniature.

"My advice - if you've a mind to follow it this time - is two days' bed rest and plenty of fluids. No rich foods and absolutely NO skipping meals. Plomeek soup won't upset your stomach, and might I add at this point that with your dulled senses you probably won't notice any difference in taste."

"Dat's becauth der is no tasde," Malcolm argues.

"Then you can easily pretend it's chicken noodle soup. Commander Tucker, I'm going to have to ask that Lieutenant Reed stays overnight. I know he prefers his own quarters, in which case there shouldn't be any trouble moving them to sickbay. Believe me, he's safer here where I can monitor the fever."

His gut clenching at Malcolm's piteous expression, Trip steels himself and nods. "Doc's right, Malcolm. The captain would agree, too. We don't need you getting sick on top of your 'little problem.'"

Shoot. He's just gone off and said it without a second thought. Well, at least the murder look he's getting is easier to stomach than Malcolm's wretched, sick puppy expression. Who knew that the withdrawn, pessimistic tactical officer could look - to speak in the ladies' terms - pathetically cute?

"Right." Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Trip guesses, "I'm going to see revenge for that comment once you're back to normal."

"Why wait thad long?" Malcolm drawls. (Is it really a drawl, when he sounds miserable enough to start hurling?)

"You can plot your vengeance all you like in your quarters," Phlox says, setting down a beaker of steaming brown fluid. Carefully he measures out a few drops and sets a vial cap of the liquid in front of Malcolm. "It's just tea. An old Earth remedy... of course, the original version includes honey and lemon, but I'd rather not trifle with your immune system any further. It's also decaffeinated. No sense triggering another tachycardia episode with a stimulant."

"It's bloody awful!" Malcolm protests, spluttering upon the first sip. "Can'd a man have a proper cuppa?"

"Hm. I followed the general procedure for brewing. I assure you, the beakers in my laboratory are completely sanitized."

Burying his head in his arms, Malcolm moans, "Don'd leab me here, Trip."

"Doctor's orders," Trip says feebly. With an apologetic smile he makes his exit. Best not to taunt the lieutenant further with his refusal to help. Besides, the captain wants that amplifier finished.

Relying on communicators is getting to be a tad too exasperating.

* * *

**Note: I couldn't find any reference to a name for Phlox's Pyrithian bat. I figured Hoshi probably would have named her, given her apparent fondness for the bat in "A Night in Sickbay." Asuga means something along the lines of "swift like a wind" in Japanese.**


	8. Chapter 8

As a doctor, Phlox has seen the worst of the Enterprise crew. Ensign Sato, for example, portrays symptoms of poor judgment and agitation when ill, particularly during such times as when human females are compelled to mate. Ensign Mayweather tends to express his needs with more gusto than necessary, as if his entire world hinges on so much as a glass of orange juice. Commander Tucker behaves as onerously as a gorn with a head cold, and - as the saying goes - "the captain is the worst of them all," as is well proven by Captain Archer, who reviles sickbay so vehemently that it's no less of a miracle when he accepts any treatments whatsoever. T'Pol, with her Vulcan logic, is the only one who has the sense to take precautions in keeping with his diagnosis. Perhaps one day she can talk some sense into her subordinate officers.

Contrary to his cheery disposition and occasional sarcasm (one has to vent on occasion when his patients refuse to listen), Phlox feels a great deal of concern for those under his care. After all, he knows more about them than even their captain. He knows which foods they can tolerate, what weaknesses might be found in their blood, which smells and sounds help them relax, the tone of voice they find most soothing, their sleeping habits, their fears and anxieties... even their likelihood of reaching old age outside of illness or injury.

He knows how difficult it is for Lieutenant Reed to accept weakness. The man is proud, yes, but more fear thrums under Phlox's hands during a therapy session or an allergy injection than he's accustomed to reading in humans. It's not the dread of pain or physical discomfort that he picks up from the lieutenant's rigidity. Fear springs from many things. Failure, loss of control, forced reliance on others, rejection, damaged trust, incapacitation, witness of death; yes, he had seen these traits in Reed again and again. The man wears his mask well, but he cannot hide himself when his very network of cells and nerve pathways testifies against him. Perhaps that is why he often takes shelter behind his datapad in the mess hall. It certainly explains his current erratic behavior. Without any control over his environment, Reed balks at even the captain's firm but gentle hand. The loyal, dogmatic soldier has lost the war, and thus himself. Now he is a prisoner, viciously attacking every human or happenstance that bars his way.

His ventures for freedom are only a symptom of the turmoil massing within.

Indeed, the lieutenant's state of mind is a shame, given the possibilities of his miniscule form. He is a scientific marvel. His body has proved adaptable to many changes - atmosphere, environment, sustenance, biometric pressure... everything so far, except for foreign pathogens. That in itself may be the fault of the lieutenant's preexisting weakness. The Englishman simply doesn't have the proper reserves to fight off common ailments. One more cross that he must bear.

Phlox sees potential in the catastrophe, no matter the tragedy involved. It's hardly a sadistic streak, no matter what the outsiders have pondered. His first instinct in a doctor is to seek progress in change. A natural disaster means that life will create new ways to survive. A biochemical attack means that science will discover methods to treat and prevent similar hurts. A change in biological nature means that nature has somehow birthed a brand new anomaly, one that might help others of its kind thrive and prosper with careful study and controlled variables.

Not that he intends to experiment on Lieutenant Reed, of course. He gave his word to the captain, and he will respect the lieutenant's desire for privacy and seclusion. However, he does wish that he could get a closer look at those complex, undiscovered cells. What a development it would be, to learn how humans can survive under microscopic conditions.

Ah, but he thinks too far ahead of himself, and he must recall himself to his duty as the ship's doctor. He will observe alone, and chart his findings as is necessary for the lieutenant's welfare. Such is the line between a scientist and a physician. He has never overstepped his boundaries yet.

Seeing that his small charge is beginning to droop (admittedly, he might have spiked the tea with a tenth milliliter of a natural sedative), Phlox lifts the lid of the cargo bin habitat and takes a quick peek, shrugging at the basic setup. Why, it's little more than a box with a few pieces of furniture. His terrarium would have suited the job perfectly. Still, if it makes the lieutenant comfortable...

"I think you'll be more comfortable in a proper bed, Lieutenant," Phlox coaxes, waggling his fingers as an invitation for Reed to step onto his hand. "You've quite exhausted yourself for one day."

As he should have expected, Reed pushes against his hand and rises unsteadily, determined to walk on his own. Within moments Phlox realizes several things:

He should never distract himself during his creatures' feeding time.

Pyrithian Bats are attracted to _anything_ that moves, even bipedal twigs that have more bones and less flesh than the insects required in their diet.

The osmotic eel, while harmless, thrives in a habitat which is not.

He's less prepared for a chiroptera contingency plan than he ought to be.

All of this comes to mind within seconds, and far too late for reasonable action. Chittering a high pitched, excited trill, Asuga launches from her perch atop her habitat and gracefully swoops under Phlox's arm, tiny claws outstretched. Malcolm yells and strikes out, but he is no more successful at detaining her rush than a praying mantis batting off an owl.

Before Phlox can snatch Asuga away she veers into a sharp dive, clinging to her catch with the desire to feed and nurture her nonexistent young. Such interesting prey has not ventured into her territory since she was stolen from her flock. The creature is gangly and violent, and perhaps will make poor eating for small ones, but its growls and chatters have prickled her sensitive ears, telling her that it is small and nutritious and less apt to struggle than the four-legged furry prey on which the large predators feast.

Her feeder is yowling and striking at her: he wants the prey, too. Since he is the larger predator she dares not contest with him. Instincts compel her to release her prey and take shelter. It is the small delicacy or her life. She must feed another day.

Avoiding the large one's claws, she flurries around his back and drops her catch over water. Perhaps the feeder will tire of the chase and gorge himself on slower, simpler prey, and while this one is still thrashing she will make her kill. She will distract the larger predator and lead him to the stores of juicy grubs and crawling crunchies, and then he will leave her alone.

"Blast you, Bat!" Phlox hollers, snatching for a broom. "Keep your head down, Lieutenant!"

Perhaps it's unwise to wave a long, solid object at the bat while Lieutenant Reed is still in her claws, but should she rest for a even moment she might just tear off the lieutenant's head.

"A little closer," Phlox urges, prodding the fluttering animal closer to the feed shelf. "Ah!"

Triumphantly he drops the soft broom bristles on top of Asuga, pressing her carefully against the shelf. "That was easier than usual. Let go of the lieutenant now, Asuga. He'll give you quite the stomach ache."

Reaching under the bristles, he unwinds the bat's claws. Trepidation chills his bones. She's already released her catch.

"Lieutenant?" Anxiously Phlox scoops up Asuga and looks around, searching for a patch of navy uniform. "Lieutenant Reed?"

Softly he curses. Running to Asuga's habitat, he thrusts her inside and locks the hatch. He scans the shelves and the floor around him. She could have dropped Reed anywhere!

"Fine way to lose a patient!" Phlox berates himself. Aghast, he checks the floor and then his shoes, just in case. He wouldn't be the first doctor to accidentally kill someone, but a crushed body might be seen as nothing less than third degree homicide.

"Lieutenant?" he repeats, activating the wall communicator. "Please respond."

Across the room, Lieutenant Reed's discarded communicator crackles. Captain Archer is the first to answer Phlox's page.

"Is everything all right down there?"

"Fine, fine," Phlox says feebly. "Just locating Mr. Reed."

"You _lost_ him?"

Realizing his commission aboard the Enterprise is likely to be terminated at any moment, Phlox flicks off the transmission and scuttles to the counter. "Not here... not here..." He shoves aside jars and crates, searches terrariums, and checks beneath the biobeds. "Where _is_ he?"

Stumped, Phlox straightens and stands still for a moment, listening. His keen ears flicker, straining to catch an unusual sound outside of the scratching, scampering, and chattering coming from the different habitats. A slight burble rises from the Osmodian eel tank. Strange, Osmodian eels remain inert while digesting, and he was just feeding it before...

Racing to the tankard of murky water, Phlox throws aside the half-balanced cover and scoops a hand under the struggling mass of dark blue. Retching, Lieutenant Reed rolls into the security of his palm, shivering, clinging, teeth clattering, fighting for breath.

"Easy, Lieutenant," Phlox coaxes, rushing the small officer to his work table. He does a rapid assessment by sight alone: a few light scratches on the torso and arms, but the skin damage is minimal and the secretions from the Osmodian eel might already have countered any infection. No bruising to the head, and the lieutenant doesn't seem to be favoring any limbs. He's just attempting to cough up both lungs and suffering the anxiety one expects in cornered prey.

Strange, Lieutenant Reed has never responded traumatically in a cornered position before now.

"Even breathes, Lieutenant," Phlox instructs, hastily running a medscan as Reed continues heaving. "There may be a little water in your lungs, but a few deep coughs should clear it. Remember the exercises I taught you last time you had a lung infection: three deep breaths, one forceful cough."

Shaking his head frantically, Reed flips onto his side and claws for his communicator, fumbling for the dial. Phlox grimaces as he is forced to leave his patient in lieu of the wall panel. The captain has a point; the sooner Lieutenant Reed has full vocal capacity, the better.

"Tank," Reed gasps.

Disconcerted, Phlox tilts his head. "I'm sorry, could you clarify that?" Perhaps he was wrong, and the lieutenant has suffered a concussion after all.

"C-Close it-t!"

There's no questioning a frantic pitch in the lieutenant's voice, but the source is confusing. Shrugging, Phlox humors his request and clamps the lid tightly over the Osmodian eel.

Immediately Reed flops back, letting the communicator slide from his fingers. He appears to breathe more easily, yet continues to tremble. It dawns on Phlox that perhaps physically ailment is not the only factor causing Reed's distress. He looks at the water sloshing gently above the Osmodian eel, and the slimy handprints splayed all over the sides of the tank.

Ah.

It seems he has yet to learn the lieutenant's every fear.

"Sickbay to Captain Archer," Phlox pages, grimly watching Reed's shivers abate. He wonders if the captain is aware of this... impediment. "Would you please come down to sickbay? We may have encountered a minor setback."

* * *

"I thought you said he would be safer here!"

"Generally, yes; sickbay is considered the proper location for injured patients."

"So what happened?"

Scratching the back his neck, Phlox admits, "The Pyrinthean bat may have gotten loose. I was feeding the animals when Commander Tucker brought in the lieutenant."

"You let the bat out?" Appalled, Archer leans over his tactical officer, reaffirming that Malcolm isn't missing any limbs.

"I don't know how she unlocked her cage!" Phlox counters. He catches a glimpse of Archer's overbearing stare and admits, "I may have forgotten the latch in my distraction."

"I've heard enough," Archer states crisply. "From now on, he's staying in my quarters. You can babysit Porthos until we figure this out."

"An ideal compromise," Phlox inclines. "I'm sure Commander Tucker will be happy to have his personal quarters back."

"Is he injured?" Archer questions, leaning over to observe the immobile lieutenant.

"Sleeping," Phlox assures him. "He quite exhausted himself. Had a bit of a fright in the Osmodian eel habitat."

Archer stills abruptly, a nauseating wave raising every hair on end. "What was that?"

"Ah." Gravely Phlox turns to face him, peeling off his long gloves. "So you're aware that the lieutenant has trouble acclimating to wet conditions."

"Are you saying you nearly drowned my armory officer?" Archer demands sharply.

"Asuga released him above the eel tank," Phlox explains. "He was perfectly fine, but he experienced a panic attack shortly thereafter."

"You think?" Archer rails, swinging to look at the supposedly harmless tank. He pictures Malcolm floundering in that filthy water. Humiliated. Desperate. Afraid. It's not difficult to imagine. "How did he get in there? How long was he in there?"

Sighing, Phlox answers reluctantly, "Two minutes, Captain."

Archer closes his eyes. Not long enough to drown, if he knows Malcolm's ferocity, but long enough that he probably thought he'd die face down, floating next to his most disdained medical asset.

"I understand the gravity of my negligence." Phlox doesn't mince words. "I'm prepared to accept any disciplinary action you deem necessary." He hesitates, then adds, "Please convey my apologies to the lieutenant. He's suffered a traumatic afternoon under my care."

"Phlox." Reining in his temper, Archer grimly shakes his head. "I still need you here. You're my only asset for the treatment Malcolm needs. Just..." Waving at the cages littering the room, he says exasperatedly, "Keep a lid on it?"

Baffled, Phlox pursed his lips in a frown, attempting to decipher the pun. Archer takes his opportunity to gather up Malcolm's housing complex.

"I'll be taking this with me," he says pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Phlox's sheepish assent. "I expect Porthos to behave himself while he's here. No cheese."

"I'll take care of him, Captain," Phlox promises.

"I see that bat anywhere outside or sickbay, and I'm marooning it on Planet Q," Archer vows. "I don't care what kind of gods take offense."

"She'll stay put. And Captain?" After another lengthy pause, Phlox nods once. "Thank you."

"Don't let it happen again," Archer warns. He backs out through the door, Malcolm's case cumbersome in his arms. Once the doors seal he balances the case on his knee and takes a peak inside, assuring himself that he hasn't shaken the lieutenant out of bed. Cleaned up, bandaged, and soothed with a teaspoon of some concoction Phlox deemed safe, Malcolm continues to sleep undisturbed. Satisfied, Archer closes the roof and readjusts his grip.

He scowls at the dewy-eyed ensign hovering nearby. "He's not cute!" he barks. If he has to drum it into every crewman's head, he'll defend Malcolm's shattered dignity somehow.

Abashed, the ensign ducks her head and scoots onward, clutching her datapad possessively. Archer considers the furtive gesture for a minute and then groans. Of course Trip's hiring _somebody_ to take snapshots for him.

"Trip!" Archer bellows, anticipating that the cheeky engineer is hovering just around the corner. "I'd better not see any of those on the ship's database!"


	9. Chapter 9

…

_Blegh!_ Retching, Malcolm flops an arm over his bunk and gags, searching blearily for the thermos of cold tea he keeps by the bed. His hand scrabbles an unfamiliar frame and he pauses, disorientated, until he remembers that his personal quarters have been exchange for a cargo bin draped with string lights and a hideous green rug. Moaning, he rolls from the bunk and fumbles his way to the makeshift lavatory. There's nothing worse than waking up with the taste of slime in one's mouth without anything proper to rinse it out.

Dismally he adjusts the shower knob, wondering if it was better just to wait for someone to show up in the room so he can beg a decent cup of tea. To think that Lieutenant Reed, chief armory officer, master of the art of self-reliance, is now trying to fill a doll-sized teapot with day-old tap water from an overhead barrel that _sometimes_ the chief engineer forgets to change. If Madeline ever brings home another gerbil he's going to personally fly home to Earth to release it in a field. No animal deserves this life.

"Malcolm?"

A soft rapping on the ceiling tells him that someone expects him to be home. Well, where else would he be? Clonking the teapot onto the table, where it crowds his rumpled uniforms (there's not even an antique iron and stove to keep his clothing neat), Malcolm stalks to the door, rubbing his eyes. The one benefit of nearly drowning in an Osmodian eel tank is that his cough was obliterated, probably from inhaling all that disgusting, medicinal slime. His aching sinuses are still in dire need of a handkerchief, however.

Throwing open the door, Malcolm holds out his hand and rasps out before Archer can say his piece, "Tissue, please."

He's surprised when a small disk is pressed into his hand. The circumference of his palm, it crackles when he rubs a fingernail over it.

"Trip finished your voice amplifier," Archer says. "Go ahead. Try it out."

The clip on the back is wieldy enough for Malcolm to lift on his own, and the device fits snugly onto the collar of his uniform. Uncertainly, he clears his throat. His eyebrows shoot up as the sound fills the room.

Archer grimaces. "Maybe a little softer," he cautions. "There's an audio adjuster on the side."

Marvelling, Malcolm reaches for the dial, scarcely the size of a watch hand knob, and twists it to the left. Trip really did put his whole effort into this tiny piece of equipment. "I could do with a tissue," he requests, snuffling.

"You sound like you still need sickbay," Archer remarks with concern, reaching for a tissue and ripping off the corner. "I told Phlox that he could bring any medications you needed over here..."

_Here_, Malcolm realizes as he wipes his throbbing nose, is the captain's own quarters. They've transferred him again, without notice. He'll never get used to the concept of "moving house" in the literal sense.

"Sorry for the sudden change in quarters," Archer says, shredding off a few more tissue pieces. "I thought it would be safer in here after that bat incident."

"Mmm." He'll never look at Asuga the same, even when he towers above her cage. That leather-winged moth-eater is enough to give anyone chiroptophobia.

"I think we need to talk about your limitations, Malcolm," Archer says somberly. There's no discussion in his tone. This is the captain meting out orders.

Sighing, Malcolm accepts another tissue square and nods his agreement. "I think I understand the dangers now, Sir."

"I'm sorry, but I can't allow any more near misses," Archer tells him. "Until we get this mess figured out, you'll stay in my quarters. Someone from the crew will bring you anything you need. _Anything_, Malcolm. If I have to assign a crewman to bring you tea every half hour, I'll make the order. This isn't a punishment. I don't want you getting hurt again."

There's no point in arguing. It's obvious that the charade is no longer going to work. He can't possibly function on a full-sized Enterprise. Sooner or later he has to accept defeat.

"I'll stay put, Sir," Malcolm swears. "I won't leave your quarters."

"Don't step anywhere where I can't see you," Archer says softly. "Malcolm. You're not a prisoner here. If you need anything at all, just let me know."

"Of course, Sir." Right now, he just wants to sleep this off. He's sick, he's tired, and he's ruddy useless. No computer program or amplifier will compensate for the loss of a five-eight frame. He may as well be strapped to the outer hull, for all the good he can do on this ship.

Captain Archer tries to impress his optimism on him. "One week, Malcolm. Just give me one more week. We will find out who's at the bottom of this."

I've heard this before, Malcolm thinks, even he makes a show of confidence. He trusts the captain; that's never changed, but he's learned a few things from trying to conquer his own weaknesses, one of which is that you cannot change the tide. Once it pulls away from the shore, there's no choice but to wait on the rocks for it to return. The captain cannot reel it in any sooner than its time.

"I'll be here," Malcolm says. It's a twofold statement - faith and surrender - but the captain accepts it as the buoyant perspective he's looking for.

"Just hang in there," he reassures Malcolm chipperly. "This'll all be over before you know it. Anything you need while I'm here?"

"Tea," Malcolm says dully. Tea, a good bit of sunshine, and a snatch of the captain's ready hope. For now he'll just settle for something hot to ease his sore throat.

* * *

"Captain."

Archer is caught red-handed, gingerly holding a miniscule teapot between two fingers as he tries to guesstimate how many millimeters of tea can be programmed into the replicator. Didn't Trip write a code somewhere for "Malcolm-Sized Portions?"

"What is it, Hoshi?" he asks, trying to impress on her that it's perfectly normal for the ship's captain to be carrying delicate doll-sized dishware.

There's no humor in Hoshi's approach; not even a sympathetic coo of, '_Aw, Malcolm's not feeling good again? I'll fix him up some oden; that should cheer him up.'_ She thrusts a datapad towards Archer, the tension in her hand turning her fingers as white as her pallor. "Sir, I just heard another transmission frequency across the transceivers. It's from an Illyrian vessel."

"Illyrian?" Archer exclaims, reaching for the datapad. "All the way out here?"

"I couldn't catch what they said," Hoshi says, indicating the recent scans taken from the bridge, "But they're close. I heard them mention an Earth starship."

"They know we're here," Archer states.

"If they know what happened... with the other vessel...?" Wincing, Hoshi waits for orders. "Should I hail them, Sir?"

This could finally be it; the repercussions for the most difficult conundrum of his entire career. Thrusting the datapad back at Hoshi, Archer tucks the teapot in a corner of the replicator. "Find out what they want," he says, striding briskly for the turbolift. "Tell the bridge to prepare for tactical maneuvers. Let's hope they're just here to talk."

"Aye, Sir," Hoshi responds grimly.

If the Illyrians have come for a skirmish, they'll risk a space war ripping through the atmosphere above the planet. Starfleet will have questions, and Planet Q will likely be cut off from all further colonization. If they leave the planet, Malcolm's chances might will be over. Archer's not ready to accept that. He didn't endanger the Enterprise by dismantling a bomb for the sake of one man, only to leave him hopelessly disabled for the rest of his life. There must be a way to avoid a firefight. The Illyrians will have to listen to him before they launch an assault.

His theory is dashed the moment he steps onto the bridge and the floor shudders under his feet. T'Pol looks away from the console and calmly states the obvious.

"They're firing on us, Captain."

...


	10. Chapter 10

Malcolm is thrown from a groggy, half-lucid dream as his habitat rattles, flinging him off the bunk. Instinctively rolling with the quake, he curls in tightly and braces his hands over his neck, praying that the cargo bin won't capsize off of the low table. He doubts he can avoid a few serious injuries if he's bashed against the floor, and Phlox has warned him there's no guarantee that he can correctly align bones that are half the length of a sparrow's wing.

Something he hadn't taken seriously until a bat tried to make Reed soup.

The initial rumble settles, followed seconds later by a softer judder. Torpedo fire. A direct hit against the shields, and after the initial lurch, a glancing strike off the starboard hull. Malcolm envisions the weapons console, estimating the shield percentage; the outline of the attacking ship. He knows the thrumming pulse of a torpedo flaring out of the craft, but the echo doesn't reach his fingertips. He doesn't understand. By now the Enterprise should be firing back! Why do they hesitate?

The scramble of bewildered crewmen, the hiss of overloaded pipes, and the grate of a sudden, sharp turn apprise Malcolm of what is missing. His ears should be fairly well blasted by the Tactical Alert. He'd been working on an old fashioned siren for the signal, and he'd been forced to shelve the project temporarily until he could stand the blaring alarm. He swears he reactivated the system after his modifications. He would never compromise the ship's defenses!

Another rumble throws him off his feet. Any more direct hits and they'll start losing hull plating. Even now, the torpedo banks are silent. Cursing, Malcolm slams a fist into his knee. Of all the times to be confined to this form! He's smaller than a hydrospanner; incapable of doing even so much as aligning the torpedoes through the ship's computer.

_There's an override. _Closing his eyes, Malcolm pictures the route to engineering. There's a crawlway that circulates through every deck. He could slip through a vent and eventually find the hatch leading to the engineering deck, but that will take time. Hours, perhaps, by which time the Enterprise will be either well past victory, or showering the planet with burning debris. The door is locked, and even Porthos cannot enter without a crewman opening it.

Sinking onto the bed, Malcolm leans forward drags a hand through his hair. This time, he has no choice but to follow orders. There's nothing he can do.

"Feeling small, Lieutenant?"

Whipping around, Malcolm looks in the doorway and startles as a large dark eye stares back at him. Gaping, he stutters, "How did you get in here?" The captain would never allow anyone to enter his quarters during a firefight.

"I have my ways," the man says vaguely. "Unless you plan to sulk in there while your ship is destroyed, I suggest you pack a phaser and come out. Who knows, there could be spiders down there." His wiley smirk emphasizes the sarcastic drawl, goading Malcolm to the doorway.

"How did you get in here?" he snarls, looking the man up and down, bewildered by the strange uniform. Red and black, accented with a symbol like an upside-down V, and ranked with four pins on the collar, the uniform sets him apart as an officer - maybe even a captain. "Who are you?"

"That's not something I care to divulge at this time," the man says, one eyebrow lurching towards the black curls of a widow's peak. "Let's just say I'm a time traveler of sorts - something your captain is familiar with. I'm here to amend a grave error from his previous mission."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Lately, Malcolm felt insignificant compared to the looming expertise of his fellow crewmen. Now an inexplicable sense of triviality encompasses him, as though he's little more than an ant being pushed and prodded for a mischievous boy's entertainment.

"You don't have to," the officer retorts. "You just have to save your ship."

Intrigue blends with distrust as Malcolm considers his answer. "How?" he finally poses. "There's no time to get to engineering. I don't even know where the weapons system failed."

"Hmmm, time is relative," the officer muses. "How about a deal? I'll take you down to engineering and show you the little wiring problem, and you convince the captain to revisit your little incident with the Illyrian vessel."

Chills run down Malcolm's spine. "How did you know about the Illyrians?" he hisses.

The officer shrugs. "Time travel. Now, do we have a deal?"

The notion is ludicrous. Even _if_ he miraculously brought the weapons online in the next five minutes... "The captain won't listen," Malcolm says blatantly.

"You never know. I'm sure he'll do _anything_ if he _sincerely_ regrets his actions." There's a crafty gleam in the man's eyes that bodes nothing but ill purpose.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Malcolm challenges.

Tutting, the officer shakes his head. "And here I thought you were the one who would do anything for the sake of your crew. Tell me, how will the captain thank you for your noble tractability when the bridge crumbles under his feet?"

"What do you expect me to do?" Malcolm retorts. "I answer to Captain Archer - not some figment of the future."

"Your orders will mean nothing when you're a mere frozen blot, floating in space next to a Pyrithian bat."

As much as he hates to admit it, Malcolm cannot help but believe the forewarning. This man knows more about his current timeline than most of the crew. "What am I supposed to tell him?"

"Nothing much," the officer says, bending lower to peer into Malcolm's eyes. "You just have to remind him of a simple matter involving a warp coil."

Understanding tightens Malcolm's throat. "They're attacking us now," he realizes. "The Illyrians."

"Well - _an_ Illyrian vessel," the officer corrects him. "I think the captain is already having second thoughts. Your job is to repair the ship."

"Without a hydrospanner?" Malcolm deadpans, spreading out his birdlike hands. "I don't suppose the future has engineering tools compatible for mice?"

Raising one eyebrow, the officer looms closer. "You've built photon torpedoes, haven't you?"

"Well... yes," Malcolm agrees, "But that was - "

"There's no need for anything else, Lieutenant." Straightening, the officer gives him a knavish smile. You're the only one suitable for this mission."

Before Malcolm can question his words, or even protest, the officer snaps his fingers and the walls are eclipsed with a red glow.

"Ah!" The dark-haired officer says, his visible black eye glinting through a marble-sized hole punched into the plating. "It seems that Mister Taylor had a rash fit of temper earlier this morning. I'm surprised he didn't check the relay wires for any damage, after throwing that sonic driver."

"We're inside the emergency control system," Malcolm exclaims, spinning around to see wires and coils vibrating above his head. His enhanced senses allow him to see waves of nearly invisible energy pulsing around the couplings. "How is this possible?" What Trip wouldn't give for a similar view of his workmanship.

"It's unbelievable, isn't it?" The officer says dully. "The things humanity calls progress. And I had to drag _you_ into the picture to save them from their own invention."

"There," Malcolm exclaims, pointing to a severed wire near the fracture site. It's so blindingly obvious. How could someone not have checked the system for internal damage?

"For want of a cable, the Enterprise was lost," the officer singsongs. "Oh, but wait - there's another one."

Malcolm's heart sinks as he looks up. Another split wire crackles, spewing sparks. It dangles an inch away from two identical strands, either of which could be its missing half.

"Which one is it?" he wonders, gripping his hair and cursing his recent color blindness.

"Put the red one with the red one, and the green one with the green one," the officer suggests.

He steadies himself against the system panel as the Enterprise rocks, tossing Malcolm against the wall. "Oops. Better hurry; another blast like that could take out the weapons system entirely."

"You're not bloody helping!" Malcolm snaps, pulling himself upright.

"I'm here to guide you - not to do your job." The officer frowns, gravely affronted. "I thought you enjoyed playing the hero."

"Not when it involves blowing up the ship!" Malcolm protests. "What happens if I cross the wrong wires?"

"Hmm, possibly a small mass explosion, resulting in your unfortunate demise, and the obliteration of the engineering deck."

Catching Malcolm's glare, the officer shrugs. "Well, you're all going to die anyway, at this rate. Why not 'Go out with a bang?'"

Growling low, Malcolm swings around and examines the wires closely. He can't tell the difference. "They're both the same color!"

"Oh, come now. Is that all? You've built phase cannons. Admittedly, your species is pathetically under-evolved, but somehow I expected more."

Planting his hands on his hips, Malcolm surveys the twisted wires. The copper strands are identical in width and delicacy. The edges are raw, but there aren't any plastic shreds littering the panel. He's built torpedoes by hand; he know the damage involved if a control station is struck by a phaser. A trifling severed wire is academy rubbish.

Quickly he scans the twisted casings, comparing the height, angle, and broken ends. The connections join in his mind like a hydrospanner aligning power banks under his deft fingers. The wires sync together, refitting their counterparts, and he knows which ones to toggle with. There's only one problem.

"I don't suppose you have a pair of infinitesimal pliers," he comments, already expecting the answer.

"Do I look like an engineer?" the man retorts. "Time's ticking, Lieutenant."

Sighing, Malcolm nods. He was already beginning to suspect there was more this officer wouldn't tell him, and now he knows why. "I'll have to connect the wires by hand."

"It's a one way trip," the officer confirms somberly. "But don't worry, you'll go down in history for it. All you have to do is bring those two wires together long enough for the relay to trigger your famous Reed Alert."

Scoffing, Malcolm shakes his head. That's how he will go down in history. What a tacky way to be remembered. This isn't how he wanted to die, small enough to be returned to England in a handkerchief, but there's little he can do to stop it, apparently. It's his life or the ship.

As the head of security aboard the Enterprise, one would think he was prepared to sacrifice his life in the line of duty. Perhaps he had never taken the time to consider it in this way. A noose sliding over his neck isn't quite the same as deliberately buckling himself into an electric chair.

Another lurch sends him tottering, and he realizes there's no point in delaying the inevitable. He's going to berate the captain in the afterlife about how poorly security is handling this sudden attack. It shouldn't _have_ to require a tactical alert to bring the crewmen into position during a crisis. They should already have full weapons and navigation at their control.

Deftly Malcolm strips the wire he needs, then its partner, peeling back scarred plastic and aligning the thin copper strands. He'll be lucky if this works. He won't be lucky enough to survive the first attempt.

_So this is it, Captain. _Closing his eyes, Malcolm grips a wire in each hand, praying that he's done it right and his sacrifice shan't be for nothing. _It was an honor serving under you, Sir. _He whispers a final goodbye that his sister will never hear, and brings the wires together.

The resulting electric shock smashes through him, clutching him for infinite seconds. A scream is clutched in his lungs, strangled before it can even reach his throat. His hands seize and burn as the acrid smell of sizzling cloth and flesh fills his nose. Abruptly the current releases him, flinging him against the metal plating of the control box, but before he hits the wall he's already ceased to feel anything.


	11. Chapter 11

It's the closest they've come to an unprepared catastrophe since the black hole. It's probably the worst malfunction since Malcolm nearly destroyed the Enterprise with one of her own misaligned torpedoes. An attacking vessel, weapons offline, and half the crew scrambling out of their bunks at 0300 is the worst combination that Archer can imagine. Further still, he's one man short on the bridge. He could always count on Malcolm being alert, uniformed, and in position within five minutes' notice. Ensign Almak can operate the weapons console, but he doesn't know the schematics like the armory officer, and he flusters in a scarcely controlled panic as he tries to bring the weapons online.

"Bridge to Engineering," Archer barks, gripping his chair as another graze rattles the bridge. "I need weapons!"

"I don't know what's going on, Captain." Trip's holler is almost drowned out by the commotion of hollering crewmen and billowing steam. "Everything's being rerouted down here! I swear it's like someone hijacked the entire system!"

"I didn't ask _what's happening. _I asked for firepower!" Archer retorts. The Enterprise is fast, but she's not built for evasion without some capacity to fire back. Sooner or later they're going to get a hole punched into their hull. "Get those weapons online!"

"Shields and weapons should be up by now!" Swearing in what sounds like convoluted Klingon, Trip breaks off and yells at another engineer, ""What do you mean, tactical is offline? It's automatic! It doesn't need an on-switch!"

"I know tactical is offline!" Archer interrupts, bracing himself as another blast flares past the viewscreen. The shuddering explosion off the right engine catapults Hoshi out of her chair. "We had manual power long before Reed installed the system. What does it take to launch a few torpedoes?"

"_Everything_ is out of whack down here," Trip emphasizes, the frustration in his voice verging on panic. "I can't get lights on - we're running on torches, Captain. I swear, someone jimmied the whole of engineering!"

"Why would anyone meddle with the engineering deck?" Briefly Archer glances at T'Pol and orders, "Scan for intruders."

Briskly T'Pol cues the scanner, clutching the console as the ship rocks. Another system ruptures, forcing Travis and Almak to leave their posts and intervene as smoke plumes from the damaged wiring. Shielding his eyes against the smoke, Archer suggests, "Trip, what happened to the reserve power?"

"There is no reserve power! Almak, put that fire out! Captain, we're fish outta water down here. There's no auxiliary, no warp capacity - we're lucky to have emergency life support and that ain't gonna last."

"Life support isn't linked to tactical. You're talking as though someone sabotaged the entire mainframe!"

"That's what it's looking like, Captain. Don't suppose we angered any more of those mischief gods by orbiting the planet?"

Before Archer can reply, another burst of light sears his vision, pummelling the bridge and spilling him onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he sees T'Pol slam against the computer and tumble in a heap, senseless. Travis remains where he lands, stretched out in front of the turbolift. Hoshi groans as she braces her forehead. Blood leaves a tacky handprint on her face.

In that moment, Archer is aware that he is watching the final moments of his crew. With no power, no shields, and no weapons, it's only a matter of moments before the Enterprise explodes in a cascade of burning debris. With reserve power offline, even the escape pods will be useless.

His mission is about to end in the massacre of eighty-three crewmen, and he never had a chance to fire one shot.

"Look familiar, Captain?"

Whirling, Archer staggers as the bridge of the Enterprise vanishes. He's standing in a large room, much like one of Earth's court of appeals, with a touch of alien flair that magnifies the red-robed figure perched on the dias. Snapping black eyes, accented by a shrouded biretta, sweep over him with coarse disdain.

"Who are you?" Archer demands, scanning the high-ceilinged room. "Where's my ship?"

"Floating in particles above the planet's surface, of course," the judge says impartially. "What did you expect? No warp power, no engines… you're a prime target, Mon Capitan."

Narrowing his eyes, Archer approaches the dias. "What is this place?"

Sighing, the figure gestures to the garish, dark walls. "I assumed you would recognize a figment from your home world. This is a court of justice. And you, Captain Archer, are on trial."

"Trial for what?" Archer snaps. "Who are you?"

"That's not relevant to your timeline," the judge retorts. "As for your crimes, I should think it would be obvious now, or is your generation truly as daft as your cavemen ancestors?"

"What kind of trick is this?" Archer asks, ignoring the jibe. _Trick_. The word triggers a memory, of a wary people on a foreign planet. "You're that mischief god," he realizes, his anger rising as the implications set in. "You're the one the natives warned us about. What did you do to Malcolm?"

"Oh, come now. I hardly touched him," the judge scoffs. "I even altered his biological functions to cope with his… wee difficulties."

"You shrunk my tactical officer," Archer declares. "Tell me how this is a _minor_ problem."

"I didn't think you would notice," the judge says, giving a noncommittal shrug. "You seemed to think so _little_ of his advice... It hardly seemed to make a difference when you couldn't hear him at all."

Gritting his teeth, Archer strides to the base of the dias. "Give me back my tactical officer," he insists. "Give me back my ship, and stay away from my crew!"

"You seem upset," the judge assesses. He leans forward, his mouth drooping in mock sympathy. "Is this the first time you've seen a vessel crippled, Captain? Or is it mere irony that an Illyrian vessel found you this far out in space?"

Cold dread stills Archer's heart. "You brought the Illyrians upon us?"

"Must be a terrible feeling, to be dead in space, years away from home," the judge answers smugly. "One would think a good Samaritan would assist you in your crisis."

"This is because of that vessel?" Archer says, aghast. "That was months ago. How long have you been tracking us? How could you possibly know - "

"Know that you deliberately compromised Starfleet's code of exploration and initiated a war that would span four hundred galaxies within thirty years?" Leaning forward, the judge scours Archer with his gaze, black eyes flashing with contempt. "You haven't seen your future, Captain. Do you realize how difficult it was to clean up your mess? Erasing memories, reversing damages, ferrying a crippled ship to its home planet - because of your actions, I was practically forced to alter the _nature_ of the cosmos!"

"Then _why_?" Archer challenges. "I was forced to make a decision - _yes_, it was unethical, but under the circumstances I had no choice! So what if I dragged Earth into a war? What does that have to do with your comsos? What compelled you to stick your nose in it?"

"Humans are so tediously bound to their petty lifetimes," the judge sneers. "You only look to the here and now - never the generations following after. I assisted the Illyrian vessel because I have an interest in Starfleet's future. Without your success, Earth will recall the Enterprise for another two hundred years, catapulting it into a universal dark age, and spoiling all opportunities for a future Federation. I, for one, have a bout to play with the only tolerable captain your galaxy is capable of producing."

Curling his nose in distaste, the judge leans back and comments, "It's nothing personal, I assure you. You're simply a tool opening the path for the next generation."

"Then why take it out on my crew?" Archer retorts, seething. "I saw them dying on board my ship. Why not let them go? I'm the one who made the order."

"Your crew has mutineed before," the judge argues. "When they questioned the sanity of your orders, they banded together to challenge your command. Seeing as they aided and abetted your tyrannical scheme, I see no reason why they shouldn't share in your punishment."

"They don't deserve this," Archer insists. _**Malcolm**_ _doesn't deserve this. _"The responsibility was mine. Punish me as you see fit."

"Oh, I am, Captain." Tilting his head to the right, the judge shakes his head. "Hm, I _doubt_ the consequences of your actions have sunk in yet. You're still deluding yourself with the notion that you had every right to pilfer and purloin your way to a perfectly amenable confrontation with the Xindi. Have you never stopped to consider that there might have been an alternate course to your… acrimonious venture?"

Silently Archer braces his stance. Of course he's wondered about the Illyrian vessel. The captain's face haunts him, and every few nights or so he has to push aside the question, "_Why are you doing this?" _But he can't take back what's already been done. Every captain has to make ethical decisions, and not every dilemma has a clear 'right' or 'wrong' answer.

"I did what I felt was right under the circumstances," Archer declares. "The lives of billions were at stake."

"As opposed to the few… or the one," the judge says cryptically. Clacking the gavel on the podium, he waves his hand in dismissal. "You have your crew, Captain Archer. What's left of them, that is. Perhaps you'll think twice before jeopardizing my investments in the future. Good officers are so tedious to replace."

Without so much as a flicker of transition, the courtroom vanishes and Archer finds himself curled on the bridge of the Enterprise, lying with his back to his dismantled chair. The grating, nerve-jarring blare of the tactical alert resounds in his ears. _Malcolm's had a whole week to himself and he couldn't even change the audio sequence? _

He could hardly care less, though, for the accompanying hum tells him that the shields are finally online. Rolling over, he raises himself to one arm and croaks, "Fire!"

Almak hauls himself to the console, his fingers flying over the controls. There's an undercurrent of movement that Archer never noticed until its absence, before a blaze of energy rocks the Illyrian vessel.

"Firing launch bay two," Almak announces. Following the missile's path, he smiles with grim satisfaction, "Just missed 'em, Sir. But they're backing away."

"They're retreating?" Archer rasps, bewildered. "We're not going anywhere. Why don't they just finish us off?"

"Maybe they're not prepared for a ship that can fire back," Almak speculates.

"Tucker to bridge." The commander's voice, fuzzed with interference, carries a hint of his casual drawl. Still mystified by the Illyrian's retreat, Archer pulls himself into his chair and jabs the communications panel.

"Archer here. Nice job triggering that tactical alert. You were just in time."

"Uh, I didn't do anything, Sir."

Perplexed, Archer glances at Almak, who shrugs. "Someone brought shields and weapons online."

"It wasn't engineering," Trip says. "We just got main power back. Everything just flicked right on. Lights, warp drive, weapons…. I've got men waiting on orders with a few torpedoes."

"Not necessary," Archer says. He shakes his head, rubbing the swelling lump on his temple. Across the bridge, Hoshi is settling gingerly in her chair, and Travis is lifting T'Pol to her feet. The bridge crew, at least, is going to make it by with a few sprains and bruises. "The Illyrians retreated once our weapons were charged. I thought tactical alert only affected the defense systems. It looks as if Malcolm's synchronized it with the main power grid. He's going to have to fix that before we have another energy crisis."

"If Malcolm's little 'Reed Alert' was tied in with the engineering, the whole deck would be overloaded every time an asteroid smacked the hull," Trip points out. "This was more like we hit a blackout. You sure you didn't lose any power on the upper decks?"

Hesitating to reply, Archer thinks back to the courtroom and its incorporeal judge. Was it a vision? A dream? Or something a little more mischievous?

"_Must be a terrible feeling, to be dead in space, years away from home…"_

"I think our saboteur might be a bit to track," Archer comments. "I want a report of any unusual happenstances in engineering. Any energy bursts or anomalies - or even a crewman who didn't belong. Get Malcolm in there while you're at it. I want him to look at his alarm system. Just don't let him out of your sight!"

"On it, Captain," Trip responds amusedly. "Tucker out."

Leaning back in his chair, Archer stares down at the blue surface of Planet Q. It seems that the natives' deity isn't so mythical after all. Given that understanding, there's one "small" problem that has yet to be resolved.

"Bridge to Tucker," Archer says. "I want you to bring Malcolm to my ready room once he's finished. I plan to have a little chat with this 'mischief god' and I want him to be present. Archer out."

…


	12. Chapter 12

Golly, engineering is a mess. Split conduits, splattered fuel, ruptured coils… it'll take days just to patch up the Enterprise enough for her to limp to the nearest supply post, now that the planet has barred them entrance. Davis figures they'll be lucky to make it to impulse speed inside of a week. Commander Tucker was already short with everyone, scrambling to maintain the most critical systems without any reserve power, but now his normal patience has been shattered thanks to the absence of a certain shrimpified lieutenant. (Not that he would even _think_ such a term in Lieutenant Reed's presence.)

"Check every vent and hatch," Tucker barks to Crewman Rhodes, sweeping past Davis and Eddie without so much as a glance. "And watch your feet - he left his earmuffs in the captain's room and the 'Reed Alert' won't function without them. Dang it, Eddie, I don't even know what room he's hiding in!"

Sighing, Davis turns back to the fizzing wires and waves for Eddie's attention. "Leave it. The captain won't like it if the whole crew takes off on a mouse hunt."

"I don't think it's right to say that about Lieutenant Reed," Eddie says uncertainly, retrieving a hydrospanner before crouching at Davis's side.

"Not to his face, Eddie. Not to his face." Davis respects the armory officer - who wouldn't admire the man who boldly follows the captain into any danger - but his awe of the lieutenant's authority has vaguely diminished since making a dollie house that his four-year-old daughter would squeal over. It puts a man in the position of civilian: someone to pay heed to and shelter, but not necessarily the one to mete out orders. He sure hopes that they fix this short-fry problem soon. Crewmen expect to _look up_ to their fellow officers, after all.

"Hey, Davis," Eddie calls, pointing his torch at the relay panel above his head. "Take a look at this."

Caught up in the mess of wires that had melted together during the firefight, Davis pauses long enough to cast the panel a cursory glance. "What about it, Ed?"

"Well, isn't this the box Taylor punched before Commander Tucker sent him to his room?"

"That's what I heard." That'll be fodder for the engineering grapevine for a few days. You learned in academy that you _never_ take out your frustrations on the equipment. One disconnected wire or a cracked sensor relay might take out the bridge communications, or even knock out life support on another deck.

"I think he still had a wrench or something in his hand when he hit it, Davis. You might want to check this out."

Reluctantly Davis abandons the wire bramble and peers at Eddie's discovery. There's a neat little hole stabbed into the plating. The sharp edges are battened down at the base, indicating that the vandalizer knew he'd caught his tool in the plating and had to jiggle it around to get it out. Someone obviously tried to avoid a maintenance report.

"I think Taylor has some explaining to do," Eddie comments. "Alert systems, transmissions, backup relays… a lot goes through this section. You think maybe this is the 'saboteur' problem the captain's been talking about?"

"Not if it affected the whole deck." Communications could've been disrupted on one or two decks, and a couple relays might have short-circuited, but it certainly wouldn't cause a system-wide blackout. Opening the panel, Davis takes a look inside and whistles.

"Found the problem?" Eddie asks, crowding to look over his shoulder.

"Naw, but he's sure gonna get chewed out by the captain when he sees this," Davis says, pointing to four dangling wires.

"Shoot, how'd we miss that?" Eddie exclaims. "Surprised we had comm at all. No wonder Sickbay had to send a team to check the status."

"Someone's gonna get busted back to crewman," Davis agrees. "Get me that hyperspanner." What a mess. Between the melted ports and the shredded couplings all over engineering, they'll be repairing the damage for weeks. Assessing the broken wires, he huffs in disbelief.

"What'd you find?" Eddie wonders, handing over the tool.

"Ever think we picked up something else from that planet?" Davis poses. He jabs the hyperspanner at the severed blue wires as he explains, "Remember when Lieutenant Reed was fussing around down here? There's our alert system. Couples right into that tactical jargon he's been yakking about."

"You mean the one that saved the ship," Eddie hints dryly. "Twice."

"Yeah, well no circuit is gonna jump a broken wire," Davis insists. "Shields and weapons should've been manual, automated systems should've been offline, and there shouldn't have been any alarm. So how the heck did we get a tactical alert in the middle of a blackout?"

Eddie shrugs. "Same reason we lost power in the first place? Maybe Loki had something to do with it."

Rolling his eyes, Davis drawls, "I'm not gonna start weighing the fate of the ship on a planet's mythical deity. Until we find out what hijacked the systems, we're calling this one a spatial anomaly."

"Suit yourself!" Eddie retorts, grinning. "I'm still waiting for the Rainbow Bridge to open up on E Deck."

"Hilarious, Ensign. Get over here and lend me a hand. Boy, Captain's gonna be mad when he sees this."

"You know, there was this one crewman on board the station where I did my training," Eddie says. "One of those mouth-offs you usually see clocked over the nearest bar table? Well, he had a spout with the ship's tactical commander one day and he….."

Davis glances back as the ensign trails off. White faced, his eyes distant with a numb sort of horror, Eddie swallows twice before stammering, "D-Davis. Davis, you… you'd better…."

Baffled, Davis follows the crewman's indicating finger, and squints at an indistinguishable, charcoaled lump. It almost looks like a rat was caught chewing the wires. "What the…."

"_Davis_," Eddie lashes, grabbing his arm. "Where's Lieutenant Reed been this whole time? You don't think he climbed… he wouldn't have…."

Suddenly the misaligned limbs look like tiny arms and legs. The crusted fabric could be a uniform. The smudged bits of rubber….

_Oh, Captain._ Davis' heart drops as he gently presses a finger against the limp form. There's no way that corpse is capable of resuscitation. _How'm I gonna tell ya about this?_

"We should…." Eddie swallows, looking sick. "We should tell Commander Tucker."

"No!" Rummaging in his pocket, Davis yanks out a handkerchief, fluffing it out reverently before laying it over the lieutenant's tiny body. Grimacing, he tucks it in gently and scoops it up. "I'll report to the captain myself."

He can't let Commander Tucker see this. For an instant the staunch tactical officer vanishes from his mind, replaced by the Englander whom Tucker fondly referred to in many regales of his escapades. A man who was both leader and follower, capable of handling this ship when required. A man who swallowed his pride and generously accepted the shoddy craftsmanship of an old, reconstructed crate refitted by a few enthusiastic engineers. A man trusted by the captain; loyal to his crew; devoted to his work.

Tucker doesn't need to see him like _this._

"Tell the commander…." Trailing off, Davis swallows and says firmly. "Give me ten minutes, Ed. By then the captain will know that - "

A chaffed hand suddenly seizes his wrist, gently upturning his hand. Davis squeezes his eyes shut as the small burden slides into Commander Tucker's palm.

"What happened to him?" Tucker asks in a barely controlled whisper. His hand trembles, and he moves as though to lift the white folds, before forcing down his hand.

"I don't know, Sir," Davis answers softly. "There was a shortage in one of the control systems…. I don't know how he got in there."

"Malcolm, you fool," Tucker murmurs, tucking his fingers in gently. "What have you done?"

A tremor wracks his shoulders, as though the soul screams in denial, whilst the evidence denies fabrication. Yet before Davis' eyes he gathers his resolve, swallowing his pain, his face barred and his shoulders braced with the necessity of a wretched deed. With rigid steps he strides to the comm base and deliberately jabs the sequence.

"Tucker to bridge." His voice falters, barely, before he wrangles it under control. "Tell the captain I'll see him in his ready room."

Without pausing for a reply he shuts down the comm, jarring steps carrying him to the doors. Eddie shakes his head. "How do you suppose he does it?" he wonders. "The man just picks up and moves on… almost like he doesn't feel anything."

Wordlessly Davis rus a hand over the damaged control box. His face twists and he slams the hatch shut, smashing his fist into the ruptured metal. Shoving past Eddie, he tosses his gloves aside and marches to the turbolift.

He's got a perfectly scaled habitat to dispose of before it breaks a few more hearts. It's got to be cleaned out - every trace that reminds the crew of their fond affections for the lieutenant's vulnerability, short as the stint may have lasted. Every teacup, linen, and tiny uniform needs to be packed away. Davis can't leave that job to the captain; not when they're already carting men to sickbay. Not when he'll be organizing the lieutenant's personal things to ship back home. He doesn't need one more burden to signify his armory officer's last, frail days.

Eddie means well, but he has no idea what's going in Commander Tucker's head. Sometimes it doesn't do a man any good to show how much he feels inside.

* * *

When Archer looks back on that moment, he realizes he was blinded by denial. He should have picked up on the absence of something in Trip's voice. The lack of fluctuation. The missing drawl of 'Malcolm's been a little troublemaker again and - come on - it's funny, Captain, and you know it.' He should have known, from Trip's measured, inflexible tone, that he should be anticipating the worst.

As it it, he doesn't even glance at Trip as he launches into his reiteration of the Illyrian attack. "I don't think the tactical alert problem was Malcolm's fault this time. I … ran into someone, you might say, right before the…."

He turns around and fixes his attention on the square of white linen in Trip's hand, and his smile vanishes. Relief plummets into a nauseating sense of finality. "No…."

"Captain."

Now he hears it; the desperate control of a man trying to hold himself together. Rushing forward, Archer holds out his hands. "Give him to me."

The bundle is so light. So fragile, and still. "Don't," Trip warns as he brushes a finger over the corner. "You don't want to see him like this."

Finality crashes over him. Staggering, Archer finds his chair. "Where was he?" he whispers.

"Engineering," Trip says, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Ensign Davis found him in one of the control panels."

"One of the…." Malcolm would never have disobeyed a direct order. Even when knew it was absolutely necessary, he would have put the captain's orders first. Numb, Archer leans back, trying to imagine the lieutenant's reasoning. _You gave me your word that I wouldn't find you like this. _"What was he doing down there?"

"There were some broken wires," Trip says, his voice husking as he is forced to relive the moment of discovery. "Tactical alert runs through that panel. He may have been trying…."

Archer flinches, fully aware now that it isn't Malcolm's body curled under the handkerchief. He's holding a burned, unsalvageable corpse. Scrambling to avoid the thought, he blurts out, "That doesn't make sense. All of engineering was compromised. Why would he….?"

Gently Tucker proposes, "Nothing else was broken, Sir." Upon Archer's nonplussed expression, he clarified, "We could've manually activated the shields and weapons on our own. Something kept the whole of engineering out of whack until the tactical alert started up. It's the only explanation."

"Why?" Archer refutes. "Who would hinge an entire ship on a single alert system? How would Malcolm even know that was the problem?"

Uncomfortably Tucker shuffles his feet. "Crewman Dillard saw someone in engineering," he says softly. "Right about the time the lights went back on. He said he like one of your future friends. He vanished before he could get a good look."

"Vanished?" Archer repeats.

Jerkily Tucker nods. He sighs, the weight of tragedy crushing his bright spirit. "Dillard says he was standing right beside the alert relay panel. If he knew the ship was going down without tactical…."

No. That answer's not good enough. Any one of the engineers could have fixed the problem instantly. A _child_ with a pair of pliers could have reconnected a broken wire. "Then why would he tell Malcolm instead of one of the engineers?"

"I don't know, Sir." Hopelessness is crumbling his commander's strength. He needs to be in engineering; hammering at some stubborn, malfunctioning system; organizing his men; fixing something that's within his capacity to repair. He needs a few hours to himself before it sinks home that he's lost a close friend.

Releasing a slow breath, Archer nods at Trip. "Go take another look at the systems," he says softly. "Davis can help you. Get to the bottom of this and then report back to me."

"Yessir." Stiffly Trip turns around, his shoulders already losing their strict bearing. For an instant he pauses to lower his head, brushing his fingers over his eyes. Then he sets his jaw and strides onto the bridge, letting the doors close behind him. The picture is a broken mimicry of the proud commander Archer knows.

Such a loss that has brought him so low. Tenderly, Archer takes a corner of the handkerchief between two fingers and pulls it back. Bile rises in his throat, and he wishes he had remained ignorant. There's little left but a mess of red and black flesh, wrapped in charred blue. Electrocution is sometimes the easiest way to go, he's been told. The brain is seized and consciousness is obliterated before the nerves can fully comprehend pain. For Malcolm's sake, he hopes it's true. Reverently Archer lowers the cloth and leans back, closing his eyes.

Why? Why this inexplicable mystery? Why this way? Why did the universe choose Malcolm to suffer a needless, indignant state of existence, before tearing him away before they could find a cure?

Glaring at the ceiling, Archer speaks his mind. "You've made your point. Why Malcolm? Why not execute judgment on me?"

"From what I've observed of humanity, it's difficult to retain a memorable lesson when consciousness ceases to exists." Lounged against the far wall, decked in a Starfleet captain's jumpsuit, the judge shrugs. "There's no point in saying 'I told you so' when you're not around to hear it."

Lunging to his feet, Archer bears down on the being who crippled his ship. "Is this your idea of justice?" he retorts, halting just shy of the judge's polished boots. "A starship crew is loyal to their captain's orders. Malcolm cooperated against his will - you didn't have to execute him for my crimes!"

"I figured he'd get the message across," the judge says dryly. "I could've used any member of your crew: your chief engineer, that dull Vulcan…. I'd have garnered the same response as if I had suffocated an Osmodian eel. Your armory officer, however - why, you've grown a bit fond since that little heart-to-heart on the ship's hull, haven't you? I suppose I could have been just as well off miniaturizing your beagle. They both seem to share the same characteristics; doggedly loyal, pattering up to your beck and call, begging to retain their position in your good favor, blindly following orders without heed to the morals of Starfleet - and might I add, tearing off into mischief on a striking fancy? Your lieutenant doesn't seem happy unless he's charging a few explosives. Fancy that he met his end in such a _grue_some manner."

"You don't get to say anything about him," Archer growls, drawing himself up to loom over the mythical being. "You don't have the right to assess his character! You know nothing about him - what he means to this crew, to the people back on Earth…."

"Careful, Mon Capitan," the judge interrupts, glancing down to indicate the handkerchief in Archer's hand. "You'll squash him."

Anxiously relaxing his grip, Archer hastens to the desk and sets Malcolm down, bracing his hands on either side of the white bundle. "What's your point?" he asks haggardly. "You wanted me to _repent_ for stealing the Illyrian warp coil? Well, you have it! What else do you want? My commission? You think that matters to me more than my crew?"

"If I wanted to sabotage your position as captain, I'd have let the Illyrians bring their sordid story back to Earth." At Archer's startled glance, the judge clarifies, "They're home, three years ahead of schedule - no thanks to your _grateful_ assistance. There is no war party hovering around this planet; I merely conjured an empty vessel to remind you of past transgressions. I could have used any number of species to rend your ship apart, but that _isn't the point_."

The judge swoops forward, meeting Archer eye to eye, toe to toe. "I've already explained the cruciality of the success of Enterprise's maiden voyage. Without her _captain_, this ship will never form the beginnings of an intergalactic federation. _Unbelievable_ as it may be, the universe can't afford to dispose of you."

"And that makes Malcolm disposable?" Archer snaps.

"More like a gloomy, stunted dog who influences the captain's emotional instincts," the judge admits with an off-hand shrug. "I tried to warn you on the planet, but you still can't seem to listen, can you? Even your tactical officer was paying attention, while you were busy fussing over landing coordinates." Folding his arms, the judge says guiltlessly, "Given your habit of disregarding sound advice, I figured it would take a severe loss to make you see things in the light of an Illyrian sun. Thirty-two men and women aboard that ship would never have seen home if not for my intervention. The galaxy you know would have been eclipsed in a haze of torpedoes and torn steel, and you couldn't even look up from your captain's chair until your armory officer was brought to you in a handkerchief." Tutting, the judge comments snidely, "I expected more from humanity's soft, gullible nature."

Archer's fists tremble as he presses them against the desk. "You couldn't have told me any other way?" he hisses. Thirty-two souls on his hands - of course he would have listened! He had hoped they would still reach home untroubled, but his conscience required him to put Earth first. Before the lives of another species.

_Before the lives of your crew?_ Is this his punishment - knowing forever that his decision resulted in the death of a fellow officer. A death that might have been needless, if he had found another way to contact the Xindi? _Was it truly an irrational course? Could we have found another means to contact Degra? Could we have arranged any other means to find repairs?_

_Did I lose my sense of humanity that day?_

"Now you're starting to see things through the eyes of the continuum," the judge says calmly. He strolls to the edge of Archer's vision and raises his hand, fingers poised to snap. "Try not to forget this… wee lesson. We may not be so forgiving next time."

A click of sound precedes a flash of blinding light, followed instantaneously by the ingracious tumble of a body against Archer's desk. Whirling, Archer pulls back a hand to defend himself, and nearly trips over himself in disbelief as Malcolm blinks up at him, five-foot-seven-inches of rumpled dignity, slumped against the desk with a handkerchief slung over his his head.

Bewildered, Malcolm stares at his full-sized hands in awe, then looks with alarm at his captain's white-washed, desolate features. "Did I miss something?


	13. Epilogue

"I hope you don't mind if I keep this." Sheepishly Davis tucks the "apartment" crate under his arm, rather embarrassed about the craftsmanship now that his senior officer is reporting back for duty. Reed offers an unruffled shrug.

"If you think Suzie will like it."

"Sure she will," Davis assures. "Although frankly, I think she'll just put her mouse colony in there. The dollies were setting up house in their cage when I left home."

"Ah." Awkwardly Reed flushes. It'll be awhile before the lieutenant gets used to his own shoe size, Davis suspects. "I'll have to return Hoshi's tea set. Can't seem to find the teapot anywhere."

"I hear the captain is to blame for that one," Davis says, chuckling. "Hoshi already retrieved it from the replicator tray. You can polish off the rest of the set before giving it to her."

"Is that so?" Absently Reed scrubs at his ear, muttering something about 'Osmodian eel slime.' He was only recently released from sickbay, after a thorough examination from Phlox declared him to be "Perfectly healthy, if a bit clumsy due to accustoming to a larger mass." Davis can almost imagine that finding the lieutenant in the control panel was a figment of a bad dream. He shut Eddie up before the lad could spread any rumors to the contrary. No one needs to entertain such unqualified fears.

"You're sure you don't want one of us to clean the replicator for you?" Davis offers. "The doc said you might still be a touch sensitive to certain cleaning agents."

"Does everyone in engineering fret about my allergies?" Huffing, Reed pauses at the mess hall door, jabbing the panel with a sort of high-minded satisfaction. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself again."

"The captain seems to disagree," Davis dares to quip. It's been three days since Reed's miraculous return, and Captain Archer is still hovering. He's responding worse, if possible. than when Porthos caught that bug. Davis isn't so sure he blames him. A man tends to watch his feet a little more until he remembers that the "Reed Alert" is merely a prank carried out by whichever cheeky crewman snitched a tiny pair of ear mufflers. (Commander Tucker has already sworn to boot the guilty crewman out of an airlock if he can't find a way to dismantle the alert system - he hasn't received any thanks from Reed, either, after the lieutenant learned the origins of the magenta lights glowing in one room or another. If Davis didn't know better, he'd suspect that Reed was toting the signal device in his pocket just to mess with Tucker's head.)

Dangers and premonitions aside, it's good to have the lieutenant back. Davis shakes his head, watching his armory officer take apart the replicator, a bucket of suds sloshing at his feet. "Guess no task is too small for an officer."

"Quite the contrary," Reed says, narrowing his eyes as he scrubs at a stubborn clump of black. "I never leave a task unfinished."

"How about fixing that Tactical Alert?" Tucker pipes in, barely glancing up from the datapad he's ferociously tapping at while he stuffs runny eggs and hash into his mouth. "Captain about fell out of his chair when it went off accidentally."

This is definitely the point at which Davis makes his gracious exit. Leave the two senior officers to bungle their way through this argument. They'll stow it eventually, although a few soap suds might find their way into the commander's eggs, whilst the replicator might _accidentally_ spray coffee grounds in the lieutenant's hair. The important thing is, Davis has fifteen minutes before his next shift.

That gives him a lot of time to start running before the chief engineer learns that he tweaked the tactical alert system to sound like a wailing cat.

* * *

In the captain's ready room, unnoticed by any save the stars and the unseen beings surrounding Planet Q, Captain Archer leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on a very small table that now serves to hold his coffee mug. He won't quickly forget the events that shook him out of his quintessential delusion. In a time of heedless panic, he forgot what it meant to defend the weak and the helpless. In turn, he became the tyrant, backstabbing those who had saved his crew.

Never again.

Taking one last, pondering look at the blue-green planet, Archer shuts down the viewscreen and activates the channel. "Archer to Bridge: take us into warp."

It's time he set an example for the next generation.


End file.
